Although It's been Said, Many Times, Many Ways
by Labyrinth01
Summary: Christmas has come to LA, and it's anything but peaceful. Brenda finds herself helping out Major Crimes and working under her old nemesis, Fritz once again is dealing with the relatives, Rusty and Sharon are determined to save Christmas for each other, and all the squad wants is to catch the bad guy. Can this holiday be saved?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** This story is the entry for the annual Christmas Fanfic Challenge on The Closer Forum. A few things before we get started...

I am trying something a little different here. Having been inspired by my fellow writers on the board, the point of view will switch around with each chapter, and I'm hoping I won't make you too dizzy. I'm trying to keep the chapters short, and there will probably be a lot of them. This year, I plan to have the Christmas story done before Christmas. We shall see.

In terms of timeline, the story takes place one year after the events of "Welcome Her Home," which is to say, Season 2 of Major Crimes. Keeping with my own "Welcome" cannon (someone tell me to get over myself), Brenda and Fritz have a house in Sharon Raydor's neighborhood, Fritz and Brenda are friendly with Sharon, and Rusty and Brenda are pretty tight. However, the whole "scary letter" storyline doesn't exist here. Clear as mud, right?

I chose this title because Mel Torme's version of "The Christmas Song" is my favorite carol. And this story is going to be told to you, indeed, in many ways.

If you just put on your new flannel PJ's and poured yourself a cup of cocoa, hoping I would write a pure Brenda/Fritz fic, you should go back and read my story from last year, "The Christmas of Us." Angsty, yet sexy and sweet. This story will have our sweeties, but a lot of other characters too.

* * *

Fritz was so hungry he was ready to eat his own arm. He didn't have a chance to grab a snack between working out and his regular 7PM AA meeting. He hoped Brenda had cooked tonight, something that happened more frequently now she was working at the DA's office and, to his surprise, occasionally produced a dish besides clam linguini or meat loaf. Disappointment greeted Fritz when he unlocked the front door to his house and found it dark and still, void of the warmth and homey smells of a dinner in progress. Where was Brenda?

He made a beeline for the kitchen, and right as his fingers grazed the fridge, the phone rang. Thinking it was Brenda explaining her whereabouts, he grabbed it without checking caller ID. The sound of sobbing on the other end stopped him cold.

"Brenda?" He instantly went on alert.

The caller mumbled and sniffled loudly. Fritz pulled the phone away from his ear and looked to see the Caller ID.

"Claire?" he asked, surprised. His manic sister wasn't one to call him and cry on the phone; in fact, he didn't think he had heard her cry since their parents died years ago. Claire was all about being happy and light and _up, up, up_ all the time, no matter what the circumstances. It about drove him crazy.

Indecipherable muttering was the only response he got from his sister.

"Claire," he said firmly, his blood sugar dipping a few more points, "what the hell is wrong? Get ahold of yourself and talk to me. Did someone die?"

Fritz could hear her take deep, gulping breaths, like the kind he took after sprinting the last few blocks of his morning run. Finally, a weak and unrecognizable voice came on. "No Fritz, no one died." And then fresh, heaving tears emitted from her.

Now that he knew death was not involved, he drifted over the cabinet and grabbed one of Brenda's Ho Hos for a quick sugar fix, not knowing how long he was going to be on the phone. He poured himself a glass of milk and sat down at the kitchen table, tearing open the Hostess package with his teeth. "Claire, please stop crying and tell me what's wrong." He tried to soften his tone but he was hungry and tired, and Claire took more patience to deal with than he had at the moment.

"I'm trying!" a watery voice said, and then Claire blew her nose loudly into the phone. Fritz stuffed the entire Ho Ho in his mouth, gulping the milk chaser like a shot of whiskey. _These aren't half bad_, he thought. Hypoglycemia averted, he felt a little more able to deal with drama.

"I'm just worried, honey. Are you sick or hurt?"

"Oh, I'm hurt alright!" Claire's voice was cotton-thick from her tears. "Carl, that jerk…" And the blubbering started anew.

Fritz didn't need Claire to tell the story. He knew. Claire never had much luck at relationships. In his opinion, once the men she dated moved past the early stage where all you want to do is have sex, they realized how truly annoying Claire can be. The longest Claire ever dated someone was just shy of a year, and Fritz strongly suspected the longevity of that relationship was due to the fact that her college boyfriend was hearing impaired.

_I might need more sugar_, he thought. _This is going to be a multi-Ho Ho conversation. Did I do enough cardio to eat two desserts? _He envied Brenda's high metabolism. _God, I really miss booze sometimes._

Fritz was so distracted thinking about his snack that he hadn't noticed the avalanche of words pouring out of Claire, tripping over one another. He caught small clumps of them between her sniffles and sobs.

" … Carl said he was really in to me…even took him to a tantric sex workshop and….…and I found him making out with Marcie during a Solstice ritual!"

He opened up a second Ho Ho. "Oh Claire, I'm sorry. You deserve so much better than Carl. He's an idiot to give you up," he said, in his best "I'm-on-your-side-no-matter-how-crazy-you-are-so-please-calm-down" voice he had perfected with Brenda.

Claire was off rambling again. "Was gonna be the first time he brought someone home…his sister's house in Vermont…teach me to ski…so now I have to come to California for Christmas, can't stand to be alone this year…."

Fritz dropped the remains of his Ho Hos on the table. _What did she just say? Come to California for Christmas? No, no, no, can't be done, Brenda's father was coming. Did he even invite Claire?_ A conversation from early autumn flitted through his mind, when she was nagging him about coming to New Jersey to visit, and he murmured something noncommittal like, "well, you can come visit us for Christmas if you want" as a way of putting her off. Only Claire would interpret that as a real invitation.

Fritz tried to break into her tear-soaked rant. "Claire, what was that you said about Christmas? Because—"

"I said I'm taking you up on your offer to come to LA. I just can't stay here in New Jersey, Fritz. Carl and I have so many friends in common that we are bound to run into each other. And maybe the sunshine will cheer me up a little." Sniff.

_She can't come_. Clay Johnson was already booked as the holiday guest, there wasn't room, and what a combination. In his gentle big brother voice, he said, "Claire, Brenda and I love you, you know that, but…"

"Oh Fritz, I know you do!" She blew her nose again. "I am so glad to have you guys, I really am. No one can make me feel better than you. I'm really…" her voice cracked…lucky."

He thought fast. Christmas was only a week away. Surely Claire couldn't afford the last minute airfare! With a sinking feeling, he knew she could. They both had sizable inheritances, although Claire had spent a fair amount of hers on her exercise studio endeavor. _Maybe there won't be any flights available this late,_ he thought. _This problem could take care of itself. But if there are… _

"But Claire…" Fritz was distracted by the jingle of Brenda's keys at the front door. Despite his frustration with Claire, a wave of warmth passed through him, and he silently chanted his mantra, vestigial from her days at the LAPD: "_she's home and she's safe_." Brenda entered the kitchen moments, her arms laden with packages. She smiled brightly when she saw Fritz, but then she noticed the empty Ho Ho wrappers on the table, and her smile quickly turned into a frown.

"Is that Claire?" she mouthed, pointing to the phone. He nodded.

Brenda waived, motioning to him to pass along her greeting. He shook his head slightly to indicate there was a problem."But Claire, " he said, looking straight at Brenda, "how are you going to get a flight out here so close to Christmas? It's going to cost a fortune."

Brenda's face turned white. "No!" she mouthed, wildly waving her hands. "Daddy's comin' for Christmas!" She made a slashing motion across her throat. "No Claire!" she mouthed. "NO CLARE!"

Fritz put his hand over the receiver. "You need to hear what I'm hearing," he whispered. He turned back to his sister and said, "I'm sorry Claire, but Brenda just came in, and she wants to hear what happened with Carl. I'm going to put you on speaker phone, okay?"

The kitchen was instantly filled with the sound of hysterical sobbing.

* * *

An hour later, after a quick dinner of leftover soup, Fritz lie in bed, trying to tune out Brenda.

"Now tell me again," she said, as she paced the floor, "how it came to pass that you invited Claire to Christmas when you knew my daddy was coming." She stopped moving and stared at him, arms crossed. "I need you to review the events that's leadin' up to the utter fiasco of a holiday we are goin' to have. Go ahead." She waived her arm in a sweeping gesture.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "For the last time, Brenda, it was an offhand remark I made in September about her _possibly_ coming out for the holiday. I had no idea she was going to be an emotional wreck after being dumped by her boyfriend right before Christmas and take that as a firm invitation. If she wasn't crazed this evening I would have told her she couldn't come because your father I going to be here. And I will call her tomorrow and tell her that, I promise. But you heard how upset she was, Brenda. There was no way I could tell her tonight that she can't come to LA. She's an utter mess."

Brenda bit her lip and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Gettin' dumped is hard," she said softly, her anger from the moment before nowhere to be seen. _Her mood swings are so rapid she gives me whiplash_, Fritz thought.

"She was with this guy for six months, Brenda. It's not like she's getting a divorce. She'll be okay."

Brenda frowned at him. "Well, that's insensitive. What a great big brother you are."

"Hey, whose side are you on? I'm just saying that I'll break the news to her when she's not a basket case and it' will be okay. You were the one who was just cross-examining me about how I accidentally let an invitation slip out. Geez, Brenda, pick a mood and stick with it."

Brenda fell quiet and had a look of long ago sadness on her face, a look she wore when she went to dark places in her past he wished she never revisited. Fritz hoped he hadn't chased her there.

He put his hand on her knee. "Honey, you okay?"

Brenda's eyes refocused and she nodded. "Tell your sister to pack her bags and come on out here. No one should be alone for the holidays." She nodded her in that way she does when she's made a decision.

Fritz was floored. "Brenda, you're nuts. We can't have both her and your dad out here at the same time. We only have one guest room. And they will drive each other crazy. They will drive _us _crazy! You just said…"

"I've made up my mind, Fritz," she said. "We can get an air mattress for your study, and Claire can stay there. It will be fine. The more the merrier." She got up and walked to the bathroom, her signal that the conversation was over.

_Holy crap, this is a recipe for disaster_, he thought.

**End Chapter 1**

**The formula is easy. Reviews=happy writers. Happy writers=prolific writers. Prolific writers=more fanfic stories. More fanfic writers=happier YOU. See how that works?  
**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sharon Raydor paced the floor of her office, cell phone pressed to her ear. With each step she felt herself get angrier and angrier, and she fought to achieve the calm she worked so hard to project. _Breathe, Sharon, breathe._

It wasn't working.

"Ricky," she cut into her son's rambling, "when I talked to you on Thanksgiving you were all set to come out here for Christmas. And now it's a week before, and…Yes, I've been listening, something came up at work. So what? It's the holidays and you have family commitments…"

She bit her lower lip as she listened to Ricky go on about his current project, end-of-year deadlines, a possible promotion in the future. And her ire grew. There was another young man in her life, and right now she cared far more about his needs than those of her ladder-climbing, Wharton-Business-School graduate son's. Her patience snapped.

"Rusty has been talking about your visit for weeks, and I know you two have been texting and making plans for what you are going to do when you get out here." Ricky's protestations started again, but Sharon had had enough.

"Ricky! I do not say this lightly to my own son, but please shut up." He did. "Rusty's life has been filled with loss and broken promises. Now you are just going to be one more person on a long list of adults who have betrayed Rusty's trust. And Ricky, I don't give a damn about the project you are working on. Hurting Rusty is not acceptable." Her voice rose at the end. She knew she was laying it on thick, but she didn't care.

When Sharon had taken Rusty in as a foster child the previous year, both of her children expressed concern for her safety. Ricky, in particular, was worried that the "street kid" she brought into her home would rob her blind and stab her in her sleep. Sharon didn't appreciate the lack of faith in her ability to take care of herself one bit, and made sure to let them know that. Her daughter Megan, a undergraduate at UCLA, met Rusty early on, and Megan realized he was harmless, just a scared kid in a new environment. It took Ricky a few months after Rusty moved in to tear himself away from work to fly in from Chicago for a long weekend, not believing his sister's assessment that all was well in their mother's household. Luckily, Rusty was getting settled in school and was ensconced into the chess club by then, and his attitude was becoming less belligerent. To Sharon's surprise, Ricky and Rusty hit it off immediately. Ricky had a great sense of humor and was fun to be around when he was out of the office, and he enjoyed telling Rusty all about having Sharon Raydor as a mother in between pickup basketball games and Chess matches. During a longer visit home, Sharon noticed that Ricky started calling Rusty "Little bro," a moniker Sharon thought would upset Rusty, as it indicated she, not the "other Sharon," as she thought of her, was Rusty's mother. However, he didn't seem to mind one bit, and the boys stayed in close touch after the visit was over. Sharon was proud of Ricky for reaching out to Rusty, and glad Rusty had another male role model, one who was younger, and a lot less jaded, than the men in Major Crimes.

But now this. Ricky was going on about how he would make it up to Rusty, and was thinking about flying him out to Chicago for a few days during spring break. Sharon shook her head angrily. Ricky just didn't get it. Promises of future trips was not going to change the fact that Ricky will join the ranks of adults that have let Rusty down. And Ricky had let _her_ down, too. He knew how much she cared for Rusty, how worried she was about his well-being. She wasn't asking too much of Ricky, only to follow through with what he promised. She wasn't one of those mothers who demanded a lot of her grown children, she really wasn't. But she did demand a lot for Rusty.

Sharon interrupted her son again. "Let me state unequivocally how disappointed I am in you. I thought you cared about Rusty, but apparently getting ahead at work is far more important." She heard him take a breath in preparation to reply. "Save it, Ricky," she snapped. "I don't want to hear it, I really don't. I just want to make one thing very clear to you, though. I am not going to be the one who breaks the news to Rusty. Call him tonight and explain yourself. As if you can." She clicked off the phone and resisted the urge to throw it across the room.

Sometimes she missed the old rotary phones, because you could hang up on someone with style. Some momentum, a good clatter at the cradle, and you just split the ear of the person you were talking to. You could really make a point. With cell phones, politely disconnecting was your only recourse. It was terribly unsatisfying.

She wrapped her arms around herself and did a few laps around the office, trying to cool down before she had to face the squad. _It will still be a nice Christmas_, she reasoned. _Any Christmas for Rusty is better than what he had before._ Last year, he seemed almost confused when she brought out the boxes of garlands and ornaments, and was silent the whole time she picked out a tree for the condo at a Christmas tree lot. After helping her haul it in the house and fit it in the stand, Rusty stood and stared as Sharon untangled the small, white lights she used every year. "I never had one before," he said softly, his eyes unfocused, taking in the large fur that almost grazed the ceiling.

"Oh, you mean a real tree? I don't like fake ones. Real is so much nicer."

"No," Rusty shook his head. "I never had a Christmas tree at all."

Sharon had made sure that there were many, many presents under that tree for Rusty. He was almost overwhelmed with her gifts, plus all the presents from the guys in Major Crimes. Sweatshirts, DVDs, a new Chess set, an iPad…with each gift, his eyes grew wider. Sharon hoped they didn't overdo it. That night, after returning from Christmas dinner at a nice restaurant, Rusty tentatively placed his hand on her arm. She stopped stock still, knowing touch wasn't something he gave away easily. "Hey Sharon, I just want to say," he cleared his throat, not looking at her, "uh, Christmas was cool." She turned her head away so he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes.

She was determined to make sure this year was just was good for a kid who was working so hard to patch over his wounds, who studied hard in school and was making friends, and had set his sights on being a chef. Rusty was going to _make it_, and she wanted to let him know, in every possible way, he was loved and supported.

Damn Ricky for jeopardizing that.

* * *

"I like the tree to be a little understated, Rusty. It's more elegant." Sharon reached up and removed a garish Santa ornament and replaced it with a clear glass snowflake. She took a sip of her eggnog and admired her handiwork.

Rusty retaliated by hanging up a large green sparkly elf with a jingle bell on his hat. "It's _festive_, Sharon. It's not tacky to put up the cool ornaments. Anyways, didn't your kids give these to you when they were little?" As if on cue, his phone rang.

Rusty grabbed his cell and answered, "hey Windy City boy, what's up?" Sharon's stomach sank. At least Ricky called like he promised. She busied herself hanging more ornaments of the gaudy variety, conceding to Rusty's taste.

"Yea, can't wait to see you…wait, what? But you said…screw work, Ricky…yea, I'm pissed, we were gonna see the new Hobbit movie…no, I don't understand…sure, a trip to Chicago would be fun in the spring, but Christmas…yea, whatever, I don't give a shit. Hey, I'm decorating the tree with your mom, a tree I guess you aren't gonna see, so I'll talk to you later." Rusty clicked his phone off and shoved it in his pocket, a scowl on his face. "Asshole," he muttered.

When said nothing and continued to focus on the task at hand, he looked at her suspiciously. "You knew, didn't you? You knew Ricky was going to bail for Christmas! Why didn't you tell me?" He crossed his arms and glared at her.

Two red ornaments were next to each other, so she swapped one out for gold. _That's better_, she thought. _More balanced. If only every problem was that easy to fix_. She sighed and looked at her foster son. He had that look on his face that said, "I'm mad and I'm going to take it out on anyone I can."

So she decided to lie.

"I'm really, really upset about Ricky cancelling his trip," she said, trying to replace her anger with sadness. "And I didn't want to talk about it. I'm just so hurt he isn't coming home to see his mother for Christmas like he promised." _There, that sounded plausible._

Rusty reached out and fist-bumped her shoulder, then shoved his hand back in his hoody pocket. "I'm not hurt, I'm just really pissed."

"Rusty—" she started.

"Are there any more of those chocolate crinkle cookies I made, or did you eat them all?" he asked, turning toward the kitchen. He sauntered off, and she knew the topic of Ricky was closed, and closed tightly. She got the hint.

"Bring me a few," she called to him. "They're your best batch yet." _ And you're a great kid, Rusty, _she really wanted to add_, weathering all the disappointment in your life._

* * *

Later on, lying in bed, Sharon replayed the day in her head, as she often did. And it occurred to her that she was so focused on how Rusty felt about Ricky not coming home for Christmas that she never thought about how _she_ felt about it.

_I miss him_, she thought. _And I was really looking forward to seeing him again. I was going to introduce him to the guys in Major Crimes, show him off a bit. He really is a son to be proud of. _

Megan was spending a year abroad studying at Cambridge University, and since airfare was so expensive, Megan decided to spend the holidays with her roommate in London. Sharon and Megan were close, and she missed her daughter terribly. Sharon wondered more than once how she could have survived her first year in Major Crimes without Megan's daily upbeat phone calls and weekend visits, her beautiful young face reminding her that life existed outside of the LAPD. She supposed she would be swallowed up by Major Crimes and become crazier than Brenda Leigh Johnson if she didn't have her children to anchor her, lost to the hours and the darkness of the city's grizzliest crimes.

At the thought of not seeing either of her kids for a long while, she felt her eyes tear. _Don't be silly_, she reprimanded herself. _This isn't about you._ She switched off the bedside light and let the dark engulf her, and as she drifted off, Sharon remembered what her mother told her when she announced her first pregnancy. After the tears and congratulations, she squeezed her daughter's hand and said, "you must prepare yourself now, Sharon. Children will break your heart."_ Mom was not kidding._

**END CHAPTER 2**

_**Is anyone reading this story? Anyone? The lack of reviews is leading to a serious existential crisis as a fanfic writer.  
**_

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	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: If you are withholding reviews because you are waiting for Brenda/Sharon interaction, it's coming, I promise.**

"Chief Johnson, your lunch date is here." Brenda looked up from the casework she was reviewing to see her assistant, Mary Jo, peeking into her office. "But if I may say so, he is much too young for you." She frowned at Brenda in mock consternation.

The door opened wider and Rusty Beck pushed his way past Mary Jo. "Hey Brenda, what's up. You ready to eat?" he asked, looking around. "Nice office. Smaller than your old one, though."

Brenda rose from her desk and grabbed her purse. "Yea, you said that the last time you were here."

She gestured to Mary Jo that she was dismissed, and after the overprotective grandmother looked Rusty up and down, she turned around and pulled the door shut behind her.

"She practically interrogated me when I came in and asked for you," Rusty asked, nodding in the direction of Mary Jo's departure. And I've been here before! Does she always hover over you like that?"

"Pretty much, yea," Brenda said. "She has four kids around my age, and none of them live around here. I think she fusses over me as a surrogate."

"Lucky you."

"She bakes me cookies, so I'm not complainin'. Hey, what kind of food are you in the mood for?"

Rusty shrugged. "As long as you're buying, I don't care."

Brenda pursed her lips in thought. "I know a great Mexican place right around the corner. It's a dive, but the food's good. Sound okay to you?"

"A dive, huh? You really know how to treat a guy." With his trademark sarcastic grin, he walked out, knowing she would follow.

* * *

"…so it became this big stupid soap opera in Chess Club. We were all expected to pick sides after they broke up, Justina's side or Kevin's side, and no one was allowed to be neutral. God, I really hate teenage drama." Rusty grabbed a couple nacho chips and shoved them in his mouth.

Brenda was about to tell him about her tragic love affair that polarized the Debate team in tenth grade when her phone "binged" that she had a text. She pulled it out of her purse and saw it was from Fritz.

"Sorry, Rusty, I don't mean to ignore you. It's just that Fritz is havin' a snit about his sister and I gotta talk him down. She called a couple of days ago and basically invited herself out here for Christmas, and then hopped in her car the next mornin' and started drivin' from New Jersey! Fritz is worried sick that she's gonna get lost or somethin'. She's a dingbat and a half." Brenda scanned the message and chuckled, then read it out loud to Rusty:

_"Claire called. Her shit car broke down in Missouri , so she bought a new Prius at nearest dealership. Who knew psychics made such good $$?"_

"Maybe she read the salesman his Tarot cards for a discount," Rusty said.

"Half off if you get a royal flush," Brenda said with a straight face. Bing, another text.

"Oh Lord, I'm actin' as rude as a teenager, no offense, usin' my cell at the table like this, my mother would have a fit, but Fritz is bein' so funny… listen to this one:"

_"Claire wanted to spread her good karma, so she picked up a hitchhiker and drove him 200 miles. Said his BO was so bad it ruined the new car smell, but it was a small sacrifice to put the universe in balance."_

When the waitress brought their food, they could barely stop laughing long enough to thank her.

"Okay, wait. " Brenda said, wiping a tear out of her eye. "I got a great reply."

She read out loud as she typed, _"Fritz, tell Claire I had a case once where 3 women picked up a hitchhiker and he beat them to death w/ his prosthetic leg, which he left at the scene. We never found him."_

Pleased with herself, she took a bite of her tamale. Delicious, as usual.

She and Rusty were deep in a discussion five minutes later about how effective a murder weapon an artificial limb would be (depended on the material and arm versus leg, they decided), when Fritz answered:

_"Funny, I don't remember that case."_

"Oh man, is he always this gullible?" Rusty asked. "Give me that." He grabbed Brenda's phone out of her hand and texted: "_It was years ago. We called the perp Stumpy. Sometimes at night when I'm driving down the highway I'm sure I can see him by the side of the road, just hop, hop, hopping along."_ Send.

Brenda leaned over to look at her phone. "Oh for heaven's sake! Fritz is gonna know that's not from me. I'm not that funny."

"No, you're not."

"You didn't have to agree…"

Bing!

_"If you saw him on the side of the road, why didn't you just arrest him?" _

Rusty rubbed his chin in fake concentration. "Good point, Agent Howard." Another message followed: "_OK_ _Rusty, give Brenda back her phone now_."

"See, I knew he could tell it wasn't me!" She fired off a quick "_I love you-from BRENDA_" and then turned her focus to Rusty. Her face was warm from laughing, her limbs loose and light. When Rusty was in a good mood, they had a lot of fun together. When he wasn't, she spent a lot of time adjusting his bad attitude. He respected her, she knew, and listened to her at times when he stopped listening to Sharon. Brenda was glad that she and Fritz fell into the role of second string parents. After having hardly any love and guidance in his life, Rusty needed all the parenting he could get.

"Oh, that was just silly," she said, smiling. "Now I gotta go back to work and boss people around the rest of the day, which his gonna be hard after gigglin' like a little girl at lunch. It's so slow now with the holidays and all, and if I can't yell at my people, what am I gonna do?"

Rusty shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. He put down his fork and abandoned the taco platter he had been enthusiastically shoveling in. "Um, Brenda, speaking of the holidays, I was wondering if I can ask you a favor."

"Does it involve a fake leg?" Brenda tried to lighten what appeared to be a rapidly darkening mood.

Rusty tilted his chair back and smiled wanly. "Not so much. It's about Sharon. Here's the deal. Her daughter is in England for the year and isn't coming home for Christmas. Her son Rickie was supposed to come from Chicago, but he called two nights ago and said he got hung up on work and cancelled his trip. Asshole. Anyways, she's pretty upset about it, and I'm afraid she's going to have a crappy Christmas because of her stupid kids."

"Aww, honey, she has you," Brenda said.

"Yea, whatever," Rusty replied, waiving her off. "I can't make up for Megan and Rickie not being there, but I thought it would be cool if I made a really nice Christmas dinner for her. You know I've been thinking about going to culinary school after high school, right?"

Brenda nodded.

"Well, I've been doing a lot of cooking lately and I'm getting pretty good at it, so I thought a Christmas dinner with as many people as possible might cheer Sharon up. It's kinda late notice, and I don't know what you and Fritz have planned, I mean, you probably have better things to do…" Rusty's fluctuating self-esteem made Brenda dizzy sometimes, f

rom tough street kid to insecure teen and back again.

"If you are askin' if we could like to come to your house for Christmas dinner, the answer is yes, love to, as long as you don't mind if my daddy and Fritz's sister tag along."

Rusty's eyes lit up. "Really? Are you sure? That's great! Provenza is going to be there. Says his hyper grandkids drive him nuts. Flynn might, depends on how his kids feel about him and if he can put up with his new son-in-law." He paused and counted with his fingers. "That could be eight people! Cool!"

Brenda thought back to the days when the idea of doing anything for Sharon was an anathema to Rusty. _Times are a'changin'_. "So, Chef Beck, what can I expect at this feast?"

"I was going through Sharon's cookbooks the other day and I found a really old one that I think belonged to her grandmother. She called her "Nona" or something really weird like that. Anyways, her grandmother was Italian, and this was an old Italian cookbook, and you could tell which recipes had been made the most, because the pages where messed up with bits of food on them. You know how cookbooks get when you use them a lot."

Brenda had no idea what he was talking about.

"Anyways, I thought I would make some of the dishes in this cookbook. I don't know what all of the ingredient are, but there's this store that sells fresh Italian pasta and stuff, so I'm going to take the cookbook there and have someone help me figure out how to make something that at least resembles what her grandmother made. I think Sharon would like that."

Brenda had to stop herself from reaching out and putting her hand on top of Rusty's. His earnestness, his desire to please, squeezed her heart. "That is really the nicest thing, Rusty. I know she will love it. And it sounds like a great Christmas dinner. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Rusty shifted in his seat, clearly unhappy with the tone of the conversation. "Whatever, I'm just making some pasta in hopes of cheering Sharon up because her kids are such jerks they can't do it themselves. It's not a big deal."

Brenda thought back to the out of control teen who shared the horrifying experience of Philip Stroh's attack, and compared him to the young man before her. _It is a very big deal_, she thought. Instead, she said, "Fritz's sister is a Vegan. She will probably bring some of her 'self award-winning tofurkey', so don't be offended."

Rusty made a disgusted face. "Uh, you have got to be kidding me. That's revolting."

"Oh, you have no idea. The week she stayed with us before our weddin', I lost five pounds because she kept insistin' on cookin'. It was awful."

"Maybe that's the cure for America's obesity crisis. Live with a Vegan," Rusty said dryly. Brenda laughed.

"Uh, hey, before we go back to Stumpyland, I have another serious question for you," Rusty said.

"Well, you are just chock full of serious today. Shoot."

He ran his fork around his empty plate for a moment, then spoke. "I have no idea what to get Sharon for Christmas. I keep trying to think and I draw a blank. Christmas is in a few days and I'm desperate. Do you have any suggestions at all?"

"We women always like soaps, lotion…"

Rusty interrupted her, shaking his head. "No, no no, I did that year. Those are copout gifts, stuff you give someone when you either don't like them, don't know them, or are too lazy to figure out what they're into. I want to do better than that, Brenda. I mean, her kids have screwed her over, so I want to give her something nice, you know? Something that she will make her really happy. But I am low on ideas and cash." He put his chin in his hand and rested his elbow on the table, looking dejected.

"I have the perfect gift for you to give Sharon," Brenda said softly, after thinking for a moment. "It is something that she wants and will treasure forever, and it will make her really happy. But I'm just not sure you are going to want to give it."

"Try me," he said, his face hopeful. "I'm open to any suggestions."

* * *

Across town, Sharon Raydor carefully stepped over a pool of blood that had gushed from the slashed neck of a little girl, lying still next to her parents, in one of the oddest crime scenes she had ever seen. _What the hell?_ She thought.

**End Chapter 3**

**You know how, this time of year, when you go to the mall or grocery store, you can hear the bell of the poor person standing in front of the Salvation Army bucket, and you just have to give a donation, because how can you _not_? Repeatedly asking for reviews makes me feel like that Salvation Army volunteer, just ringing away, hoping for a word or two to know someone out there cares. My bucket is the "Leave a Review" button. Even the smallest amount is appreciated.**

6


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sharon really wished she hadn't worn her brand new Jimmy Choo pumps to work. Not only were they uncomfortable, but the spiky heels tended to poke a hole in the blue foot covers she was required to wear when called to a murder. She would feel terrible if she contaminated a crime scene because of her expensive taste in footwear. And it looked like they would need each and every unmolested clue they could gather to figure out who was behind this triple homicide.

Andy Flynn came over and stared at the wall in front of them with a look of perplexity similar to the one on Sharon's face. "You ever see the movie 'A Beautiful Mind?'" Flynn asked after a moment.

"Hmmm?" Sharon said, shifting her weight from one aching foot to the other. She turned to look at him. "Oh, yes. The film about John Nash, the math genius." She frowned. "What does that have to do with this crime?"

"Don't you remember the scenes where the guy went bonkers? He had newspaper clippings pasted all over his walls, sorta like this," he nodded to the space in front of them.

Sharon murmured in understanding. "Oh, yes, he was seeing patterns in newspapers that didn't exist. I remember now. But this, Lieutenant, is not that working of a brilliant mind gone off course. This seems to be something completely different."

"Oh really?" Flynn asked. "How the hell do you know?"

She didn't know, of course, but instead of answering, Sharon turned and surveyed the scene, averting her gaze from the two adults and one child in the center of the room, covered with blood from precise slashes to their throats. She had looked at the bodies long and hard when she first arrived, putting her emotions in a faraway place so she could coldly examine the victims for whatever clues their silent lips might be able to whisper. She looked at them through her lens of blunt objectivity and saw not an unfamiliar tale: a surprise attack, the husband killed first, the wife on her knees, and the little girl woken from the noise and killed by the intruders as soon as she reached her parent's bodies. There were no fistfuls of killer DNA, no obvious clues visible to the naked eye that had Major Crimes running out the door in hot pursuit of a suspect. After awhile, when there was nothing more to be gained by staring at death, Sharon stood up and walked away, careful not to tread though the red river fed by the tributaries of the victims' blood.

Now she found herself unable to look back at the corpses, those emotions always too close to a mother's heart threatening to fight their way of their prison every time she saw the little girl's blonde hair.

So instead, she focused on the baffling interior design of the residence. Pieces of paper of various sizes covered with shaky handwriting were stuck to all the walls, most at eye level. The residents were resourceful, and any paper product was fair game: the backs of old envelopes, grocery story receipts, the inside tab of a Kleenex box. At one point the occupants of the apartment must have owned a pad of Post-its, because a few bright yellow notes stood out against the drab walls and dull scraps like neon polka dots. Some of them were held into place with yellowing cellophane tape, others with tacks, and Sharon saw a couple where bubble gum was used for adherence. Near the front door, there were bits of tape and tacks where there were no papers, and the notes that hung nearby were battered and smudged. If Sharon had to guess, the notes near the door were picked up and moved around frequently, whereas others looked relatively permanent. The greatest concentration of papers on the wall was in the living room, but a significant smattering was in the kitchen and in the bedroom. In the bathroom, only one small note was taped to the mirror. There were no hung pictures, and the only other decoration was two cheap paper maps of LA pinned up in the living room. Various streets were marked in pen, and notations along the side were made.

Sharon wanted to know what the papers were for, why the content was so important that it had to be displayed. She was desperate to discover if the obsessive note-taking and posting had anything do to with the beautiful blonde girl lying dead on the ground, just days before Christmas. But try as she might, she couldn't glean any information from the potential clues in front of her.

They were all written in Russian.

"Captain," Lieutenant Tao said, rushing up to her, "I can't find any signs that there was a computer. I didn't see any cell phones either, but that's not surprising, the killer could have taken them." He looked around the apartment. "There isn't a TV here, but we don't think we're looking at a robbery. These people don't look like they had too much to lose." He rubbed his balk head. "I'm at a loss here, boss. We've got several boxes with handwritten papers in them, a few old photos, some receipts from a money-order place around the corner, but nothing is in English. And without any electronics…." he sighed in frustration. Tao was trapped in a low tech world where he didn't even speak the language, and Sharon could tell he felt lost.

The apartment was in a part of LA that had always been solidly working class, but it's rougher areas had been gentrified in the past ten years to include many nice middle class homes. It was, overall, a low crime area of the city. But the apartment building they were in was old and run down, a throwback to poorer days, full of neighbors who see cop cars and look the other way. The bodies were discovered by the landlord's son who had come into the apartment to install a new thermostat. Sharon was told the man ran screaming from the building at top speed, and when the cops arrived, he could barely stop vomiting long enough to tell his story.

Even without the sight and smell of death and the odd decorating scheme, the apartment had a permeating depressing air about it. All the furniture was ripped and stained, as if pulled out of a dumpster. There were not any curtains or rugs, and no family pictures or knick-knacks were displayed. The small kitchen had an ancient microwave in it, mismatched, chipped dishes, and a small amount of food, most of which was in restaurant containers, as if the family ate only from "doggie bags." There were a few dirty dishes in the sink and the floor was in need of mopping. There was only one bedroom, with a double bed and a single mattress on the floor next to each other. There was no sign of Christmas anywhere, and if Sharon hadn't seen the little girl's body, and a backpack with homework in it, she wouldn't have believed a child lived here. There were no toys to be seen. Overall, it was a dank, depressing place.

Sanchez carried a box with a stack of papers in it. "Captain, this box has bills in it, all addressed to Artem Popova. The name on the schoolwork in the backpack is Vika Popova." Sanchez frowned. "The dead guy must be her grandfather."

"Father," Sykes called, carrying a beat up cigar box. She held it up for Sharon to see. "I found this in the back of the bedroom closet. It has copies of their green card. Our victims re Artem Popova, age 58, and his wife, Elena Sherkov Povova, 46." Sykes tightened her faced into a mask and looked over at Vika, who, like her parents, had had her throat viciously cut. "Vika was only eight."

"Call the school and find out everything you can about the family," Sharon instructed.

"Kendell?" she barked. "What did you find?"

Kendell looked up from where he was kneeling over the bodies. "What you see is what you get, Captain. Throats were slashed with a sharp blade in one precise motion." He sighed, looking at the little girl. "Liver temp indicates they've been dead for about 15 hours."

Sharon nodded and looked at her people. "And the neighbors? Anyone hear anything?"

Sanchez stepped forward. "No one heard or saw a thing. The ones I talked to said the—what was their names again—the Popova's didn't speak a word of English and seemed really unfriendly, so everyone just left them alone . No one saw any strangers hanging around last night."

Sharon nodded. The usual story in a building like this.

"We really need a Russian translator here to figure out what all this stuff on the wall means. Lieutenant Tao, any luck? "

Tao was on his cell phone, and extended one finger to ask for Sharon's patience. He hung up a minute later. "Crap," he said. "The Department has two Russian interpreters, and one is working with Narcotics in an undercover investigation and can't under any circumstances be bothered, as ordered by Chief Taylor."

"And the second one?"

Mike shook his head. "I was just on the phone with him. He's packing to leave for Ohio tomorrow for the holidays, but would be happy to translate as much as he can back at the department."

"Did you tell him we need him here? Now? Did you describe what we're dealing with? "

"Oh, yes I did. And he told me that under no circumstances does he go to crime scenes, and that is written in his job description. The sight of blood makes him faint. I explained the situation but he wouldn't budge. He said to take the signs off the wall, bring them back, and he will translate them, or else take pictures and blow them up. That's all he will agree to do."

Sharon grunted in frustration. _Don't go anywhere near police work if you are a pansy,_ she thought. She shook her head, her long mane of hair falling down her shoulders. "No, someone needs to look at this place in context. We have no leads at all, and there very well may be clues in all these papers stuck to the walls, clues that could be lost if we move them. Someone has to come here and tell us what they mean! Context, people!" She realized she was starting to whine, but she didn't care. She felt she knew nothing about these victims, and she had no direction to start this investigation. And that is a very, very bad place to be.

Provenza cleared his throat. "Um, Captain, I think I know someone who might be able to come here and help us, if we ask really nice. Someone who is fluent in Russian and doesn't get queasy at crime scenes."

Sharon brightened. "Great! Who?"

Provenza hesitated. "Brenda Leigh Johnson."

Before her usual filters could do their job and edit everything that came out of her mouth, she said, "absolutely not."

Provenza moved closer to her and pulled her out of earshot from the rest of the squad. "And why not, Captain? Chief Johnson learned to speak and read Russian in the CIA, so she's gotta be good. And I hear she's quite adept at understanding crime scenes. I'm sure she would be willing…"

Sharon interrupted him. "I'm sure she would. But it's not appropriate." She stepped away to go and examine a dusty map taped haphazardly to the wall.

"Why are you being so difficult? I thought you and Chief Johnson were friends now. Hell, you are even neighbors. Lots of retired cops come back and help out with cases. Sharon, what's the problem?"

_He called me Sharon, like when a parent calls a child by their full name. He thinks I'm being childish. Am I?_ Images of the no-nonsense, powerhouse blonde blowing her way through a crime scene, gleaning clues no one else can see, simultaneously pissing off and impressing everyone in her wake, filled her head. _That's what I have to live up to, every day, and I always fall short. But the squad has gotten used to me now, used to my ways, and it's okay. But to see us side by side will remind them what they are missing._

"Captain Raydor," Flynn said, now standing next to Provenza. "This is your Division now. And so far, no lawsuits, so in my book you are doing a better job than she did. Have her help us out, then she will go back to her nice cushy job at the DA's office, and we will keep doing what we do. It will be okay."

_It will be okay._ She sure hoped so. Sharon swallowed her insecurity and her pride and said, to no one in particular, "someone please call Brenda Johnson at the DA's office and ask her if she could help us out for the evening. And make sure you tell her we will pay her consultant's fee in chocolate."

**End Chapter 4**

_**Dear Santa,**_

_**I have been a very good girl this year, and have written a lot of fanfic for The Closer. For Christmas I would like for people to leave me reviews to let me know they stopped by and hung out in my little created universe for a few minutes. Please tell them know that couple of words would be great, and I really need to hear from people to get the motivation to keep writing. Give my love to the elves, and assure them I'll be updating "Welcome Her Home with Red Roses" really soon. Those little guys are impatient fanfic addicts!**_

_**Love,**_

_**Labyrinth**_

5


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: Yea, I'm gonna need 12 days of Christmas to get this story done. I think it's got at least 5 more chapters to go. At the rate I'm going, though, if I get it done by next Christmas, I say, "yea me!"**

**Thanks to those of you who answered my Christmas plea and left reviews. The initial lack of response to this story-something I've never encountered-almost made me go against my beliefs and delete it (I believe if you start something here, you should finish it.) I thought, if no one is reading it, why I am I taking all this time writing a story during this chaotic time of year? The kind reviews got gave me an answer. I ask that everyone keep it up. I am not one to write procedurals, and I feel very out of my element and a bit insecure. Hitting the Review button and literally leaving two or three words encouragement would be really awesome. Thanks.**

**Each section is written from a different person's POV.**

Fritz walked around the house with nerves in his step, looking for anything messy or out of place. A pillow straightened here, a bit of cat fur removed there, Brenda's toothpaste stuck to the side of the wash basin cleaned out._ Clay isn't even going to be using her bathroom_, he thought. _I really need to take it down a notch._

Clay Johnson had never seen their new house, and Fritz was anxious to show he was able to provide a good home for his daughter. He knew that was a horribly sexist thought, and Brenda would probably slap him if he voiced it out loud, especially since she made a lot more money than he did, but Fritz knew in Clay Johnson's mind, Fritz was responsible for his daughter's well-being. He thought his tough, stubborn, former CIA-and-LAPD-Chief daughter who could make a serial killer cry for his mother needed someone to watch over her. It was stupid for Fritz to buy in to that kind of thinking, but he had to admit, his father-in-law intimated him. Clay had no problem reminding Fritz he was there first, and he would be around if Brenda ever decided to move on, so he had a permanence in Brenda's life Fritz could never attain. Brenda, of course, had no idea this silent alpha-male power struggle over her was going on. She just knew she loved her Daddy and didn't want his death to leave behind the horrible burden of guilt from years of benign neglect like Willie Rae's had, so she was doing her best to be a good daughter. And Fritz knew she loved him, loved him very much, and got better at telling him that every day, so he had nothing to worry about. Still, he couldn't help but obsess that the paint they chose for the living room wasn't quite the right shade of green.

Just as Fritz was raising his arm to look at his watch, his phone rang. "Brenda," he answered. "You almost home? We need to leave for the airport in ten minutes." He spotted a dust bunny under the TV and went to get the broom.

"Uh, Fritzy, now don't be mad," Brenda said, her voice unsure.

Fritz stopped dead in his tracks. "Fritz, don't be mad" was Brenda's way of preparing him for something that was going to piss him off. "Fritz, don't be mad, but I can't go to that party with you…I have to miss dinner…I can't leave town for our romantic weekend getaway…" He hadn't heard it in a long time, pretty much since she had left Major Crimes. Although she had many late evenings in her new job, her schedule tethered to the unpredictable nature of homicides and the grinding pressure to solve them. People didn't die in the Bureau of Investigations, so what was it?

"You know saying that has the opposite effect on me, Brenda," he said sharply. "It always makes me mad. And if you think whatever you have to say is going to make me pick your father up from the airport alone, you are very, very wrong." He sat down heavily on the couch.

"Honey, don't be like that," she purred, her tone honey sweet. "Just hear me out, okay?"

"Cut the saccharine act, Brenda, and spit it out. I know you aren't going to a crime scene, so what's up?" He was getting impatient. He was anxious about Clay's arrival, worried about his nutty sister driving across the country and picking up hitchhikers, and now Brenda is playing games.

"Well, actually…" she paused for moment, and then he heard her take a deep breath. "See Fritz, I got a call from Lieutenant Provenza just a little bit ago, and I was asked to do a favor for Major Crimes. They are at a crime scene where everything is written in Russian, and I guess things are hung all over all the walls or some such nonsense, I'm not sure I really understood it, but anyways, they can't get an interpreter out there to take a look. It was a triple homicide, a little girl and her parents, and they don't have any leads at all. They hope I can translate somethin' that might provide a clue. That's all I'm doin,' Fritz. Just dustin' off my rusty language skills and helpin' out my old colleagues in a pinch." She spoke at top speed, her words running into each other, the way she did when she got nervous.

"That's _all_ you're doing, Brenda? You're sticking me with picking your father up at the airport by myself! "

"For heaven's sake, Fritz, you've met the man before. He doesn't bite."

"That's not the point. I thought the days of you blowing me off for Major Crimes were over. Why can't you go to the crime scene after we go to LAX and get your dad settled in here? Can't Raydor find something for the squad to do until then?"

The Southern syrup in Brenda's tone was replaced by a clipped, angry tone. "Perhaps you didn't hear me before, Fritz. It's a triple murder, and the youngest victim is 8 years old. As you may remember from your days at Quantico, the first 24 hours after a murder are critical to solvin' the case. And since no one can read a damn thing at the crime scene, not a note, a bill, nothin', they have no idea where to start investigatin'. And you know it probably was not fun for Sharon Raydor to have to ask me for help, so it's pretty damn important. I thought you of all people would understand."

"I get it, Brenda," he said. "The first chance you get, you go running back to Major Crimes. Just like old times, not caring one bit how it would affect me." He knew he was being dramatic, but it was almost Pavlovian. They had had this fight so many times before, shades of abandonment and neediness, and even though it had been awhile, the same hurt feelings surfaced, along with bruising words from a well-worn script.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" Brenda nearly yelled, her anger eclipsing his. "I'm not tryin' to get my old job back, I was asked to help out. And you know what? I'm not havin' this fight with you. You are actin' like a jerk. I'm sorry you have to pick up my daddy all by yourself, what a horrible burden. I'll pay you back by puttin' up with your crazy sister and we can call it even."

"Brenda—" he realized he might have overreacted.

"Don't wanna hear it, Fritz, hangin' up now," she snapped, and she did. He was left standing in the middle of the living room, angry at her, angry at himself, and wondering if he had time to get to that dust bunny before leaving for the airport.

* * *

Brenda squinted into the gathering darkness, her GPS's repeated mantra of "you have reached your destination" getting on her nerves. "Is my destination that buildin' or that buildin'? she demanded to the inside of her car in frustration, unable to make out street numbers. She was saved when she recognized the figure leaning against the outside of the apartment closest to her, a woman with striking dark hair in a crisp navy suit.

Brenda got out of her car and walked up to Sharon, who was talking on her phone. She gave Brenda a reserved smile and motioned for her to wait until her conversation was over. Behind the simple gesture Brenda felt a chill, a distance she hadn't known with Sharon Raydor in quite some time. _What's that about?_ she thought.

"…Rusty, if you are up to cooking Christmas dinner, you can invite as many people as you like, if you don't mind going to the trouble. You did?" She looked at Brenda with an eyebrow raised. "Of course it's fine! What are you cooking? A surprise?" Sharon smiled. "Should I be nervous?" She glanced at Brenda. "Speaking of, Brenda just showed up…yes, she's helping us out, it's a long story…Rusty, that's not funny!" A furrow of anger flashed across Sharon's forehead before she smoothed it out again. "Watch your mouth. I have to go now, okay? Don't know when I'll be home. Behave. Goodnight, Rusty." She hung up the phone and turned to Brenda.

"So what did Rusty say that made you so mad?" Brenda couldn't help but ask, because she had a good idea.

Sharon waved her hand in dismissal. "Some smart ass comment about a crime scene not being big enough for both of us." She shifted her weight as if her feet hurt. "Rusty just told me you are coming over for Christmas dinner, along with your father and sister-in-law."

Brenda couldn't tell from Sharon's bland tone if she was upset or not. "Rusty asked me today at lunch, but I should have checked with you first to make sure it was okay. I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to overstep."

Sharon shook her head. "Oh no, it's fine. It's more than fine, it's great. Rusty has plans to cook some big elaborate Christmas dinner, so the more people, the happier he'll be." She sighed and turned to walk into the building. "He's upset about the fact that my son Ricky decided at the last minute not to come for Christmas. The two of them are really tight, and Rusty is really upset. I think planning and cooking this dinner is a distraction for him, a way to redirect his disappointment." Sharon swung the large front door the apartment building and stepped through, gesturing for Brenda to follow her.

_Interesting_, Brenda thought. _This is some sort of weird "Gift of the Magi" thing between Rusty and Sharon_. This was her last thought of Christmas, though: as soon as she walked into the Popova's apartment, all thoughts of Christmas were wiped from her mind.

* * *

Fritz did the dinner dishes while a surly Clay read the paper on the couch. As predicted, he was upset when Fritz was the only one waiting for him at Baggage Claim, and he pouted all the way back home, responding to Fritz's attempts to make conversation with monosyllabic responses. At one point Clay got a text from Brenda making sure he had gotten in safely, and Fritz longed for the icy silence once Clay launched into a diatribe about how basic politeness was a thing of the past with the younger generation, doesn't anyone pick up a phone anymore? Fritz was ready to chew off his arm like a wild animal caught in a trap, and was saved only by Clay's growling stomach, which allowed him to flee into the kitchen for safety, away from Clay's bad mood and his soapbox.

He had just put the last dish in the dish washer when he heard his name called from the living room. When Fritz presented himself, Clay gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit down, son," he said solemnly.

Fritz did as asked, wondering if he was going to be the recipient of bad news that was meant for Brenda's ears.

"Now I want you to be honest with me," Clay said sternly. "It's 9PM and Brenda Leigh is still at that crime scene. It's just like it used to be. Level with me, Fritz: has she gone back to bein' a police officer?"

Fritz looked at him in surprise. "No Clay, why would you think that? I mean, yes, she's at a crime scene right now, but that's an anomaly. She's retired from the LAPD, I can assure you that."

"You sure? Because last time Brenda was visiting me, she was going on about how much she missed Major Crimes. I just figured she was looking to get back into it again, and you just didn't' want to tell me."

_How much she misses Major Crimes?_ Fritz wasn't sure he heard right. All his conversations with Brenda about her job change were that, although it was a hard transition, she's never been happier. Has she been lying to him this whole time? Why?

He knew why. Because he's been so over the top excited about spending more time with her and knowing she's safe. If she was missed being a cop, a Deputy Chief, a she probably felt she couldn't tell him about it. Still, all their work on being more honest with each other, and to hear this from her father. It hurt.

"Clay, I can assure you that the LAPD doesn't work like that. Once you are retired, especially once you resigned under the conditions Brenda did, you can't just decide to go back. Tonight was just a fluke. They were in need of someone who spoke Russian, and Brenda was free."

"Russian," Clay mumbled to himself. "Why would a kid of mine waste time learning a Commie language like that, I have no idea," Clay grumbled. "_Russian_."

* * *

If Brenda was more aware of the people around her and less focused on the task at hand, she would have realized she was being regarded as a rock star. When she walked through the door of the Popova's apartment, all talking immediately ceased. After quick hellos to her former squad, she began to study the papers on the wall, squinting at the shaky writing. SID techs, uniforms, and other LAPD staff parted for her like she were a queen, and every move she made was watched carefully by her own private paparazzi.

"What is she doing?" Sikes whispered to Sanchez, after 15 minutes of near silence in the living room, where most activity had ceased lest someone accidentally get in Brenda's way. "Is she going to talk to us about what she's translating? Is she always this strange?"

"Shut up," Sanchez said sharply. "Watch and learn. The Chief knows what she's doing."

Brenda caught their whispering and turned her head sharply, glaring them into silence. Feeling like she had sufficiently shrunk Sikes back into place, she reached into her purse and took out a notebook to jot down a few notes.

She thought back to her first Russian Language class at Georgetown, and how the Cyrillic alphabet used to make her slightly nauseous. She tried to contort her brain around it, make sense of it as it if were the Roman letters she were familiar with, but all the mental bending and twisting she did was make her ill. Until one day, when her brains stopped trying to shove Cyrillic characters into Roman molds, and the letters gained their own familiarity, and no acrobatics were needed. It was like a switch had gone on in her mind, and from that moment on, Russian came easily to her. As she looked at the first few notes written by the Popova's, that old familiar headache came back, the Cyrillic characters taunting her with their odd shapes. But soon, the two of them slipped back into an old familiar pattern, and the words on the tattered notes spoke to her clearly.

She moved from the living room to the kitchen, oblivious to the eyes following her every move. Once she had her fill of perusing the notes that covered the cabinets and other surfaces, she spent considerable time in the bedroom, the door shut firmly behind her to let people know that company was not welcome. Finally, after over an hour, she came out to find Sharon Raydor,

She found Sharon sitting on the ratty couch, going through a report sent over from Vika's school. A small entourage gathered behind Brenda, as if waiting for the guru to speak. Sharon looked at the crowd with an irritated expression before focusing on Brenda.

"So Chief Johnson, what's the big secret of the strange wallpaper?" Sharon said. "Were you able to tell why they had notes taped up all over the place?"

Brenda nodded. "Yes, Captain, I was. I figured it out pretty early on from looking at the area around the front door—" she gestured behind her without turning around—"but I wanted to see the whole place before I told you what I found, to make sure."

Sharon was growing impatient. "So what are they? The suspense is killing me."

Brenda took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "They're instructions."

Sharon didn't understand. "Instructions for what exactly?"

"Instructions for…_everythin'_."

* * *

Fritz dragged his feet getting ready for bed. Long after he got Clay Johnson settled in the guest room for the night, he puttered around the house, hoping Brenda would come home so he could apologize for his behavior earlier that evening. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for not being more understanding about her helping out Major Crimes…and after Brenda forgave him, which she always did, he wanted to start prodding into Clay's assertion that Brenda missed being at the LAPD. If she was unhappy and covering up for his sake, he wanted to know about it, even if he might not like what she had to say.

Fritz finally gave up his vigil after falling asleep twice during David Letterman. The bed felt vast and cold without Brenda, and he couldn't get comfortable no matter how hard he tried. Going to sleep while Brenda was at a crime scene, not knowing when he would see her again…he shuttered. It was just like old times. Way, way too much like old times.

The exhaustion of the week finally got the upper hand, and he was in a deep, heavy sleep when a loud knocking on the front door poked him into consciousness. When the annoying noise didn't go away, he sat up and let his mind clear enough to realize what it was.

_Someone's at the door. Did Brenda forget her key? _He glanced at the clock a he got out of bed. 3AM. Why is she coming home so late?

"I'm coming Brenda, I'm coming!" he muttered, tired and irritated. To Fritz's dismay, the noise awoke Clay Johnson also, and he came rumbling out of the spare bedroom after Fritz, demanding to know who was making such a ruckus in the wee hours.

"Your daughter," Fritz said, fatigue making him sound harsh. Softer, then, "she probably forgot her key. I'm sorry she woke you."

"It's okay, Fritz. I want to talk to her about why she's coming home in the middle of the night anyways," Clay grumbled. Fritz had reached the front entryway, and wanted to shake his head at the idea of Clay butting into the decisions of his 45-year-old daughter. _ I want to be in another state for when that fight goes down, _he thought.

When he flung open the door, his sister Claire sprung into his arms so fast he barely had time to react.

**END CHAPTER 5**_**  
**_

**See guilt trip above re: reviews**

6


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: POV changes in each section.  
**

**Chapter 6**

Sharon remembered when her children were little, she often had to count to ten to calm herself in order to respond to a situation in such a way that would not be emotionally scarring. She didn't want Megan and Ricky telling a shrink one day that the reason they were miserable failures in life was because Mommy used to scream obscenities at them when she was stressed out.

Standing next to Brenda Leigh Johnson at a crime scene, she found herself silently counting to prevent herself from blowing up at the other woman.

"Chief Johnson," (_one, two, three_…) "can you please explain what you mean by saying the pieces of paper the Popova's hung on the wall are 'instructions?'"

"That's the best term I can use to describe them, but yes, they are directions." Brenda nodded her head as if that made everything clear.

Sharon clenched her fists. (_Four, five, six_…) "Do you think perhaps you could translate some of them so we might possibly know what the heck you are talking about?" A little snark was okay. Sharon didn't know how to count away snark.

"Oh, right," Brenda said. "I think I could explain it better if I told you what a few of them actually mean, so yes, let me translate." Brenda turned and the adoring crowd gathered around her parted like the red sea. She walked over the front door and stood, waiting for Sharon to catch up.

_I'm hungry, I'm tired, and my feet hurt_, Sharon thought. _And I really want to be home with Rusty. I could go without the Johnson theatrics. Doesn't she realize everyone is always looking at her anyways?_ Sharon dutifully walked over to where the small blonde was waiting impatiently.

"Alright, so it appears that several of these pieces of paper were frequently handled, as if they were taken down on the way out the door and then hung back up, either by tape or with a tack, or, oh my, is that gum?" Brenda wrinkled her nose. "That makes sense when reading the content."

(_seven, eight, nine_…) "Which is…"

Brenda gave her a sharp look. "Gettin' there, Captain." Brenda perused the pseudo-bulletin board, and pointed to a tattered scrap. "This one, here, is a detailed description of how to take the bus to work. It seems that the Popova's can't read English, so Mr. Popova-or Mrs. Popova, I can't tell whose job it is-describe the color of the house that is right next to the bus stop, and—see these squiggles here?-that is their impression of what the bus number looks like. It lists the coins you have to put in the slot to pay your way, and notes to never sit in the first few seats or you will get yelled at. Then it says to count seven stops, turn right, stand by the 'store with loud music,' and wait for another bus. And there's more counting stops, etc. They don't give the name of where they work, but there's enough detail here that I think you guys can figure it out from the bus route. Work is referred to as 'restaurant.'"

"That's helpful," Sharon murmured.

"It gets stranger, though. It's like they needed to be guided though every step of their lives in LA. This one—" Brenda pointed to a 8x11 inch sheet of lined paper pulled from a notebook—"is a grocery list. It starts out with a similar description about how to walk to the store using landmarks. From what I can tell, they were overwhelmed by the selection of food, so they bought the same 15 or so items each time they shopped, and they described each one by the label, and where exactly it was located in the store. That way, they could bring the exact amount of cash each week, and they didn't spend all day in the store."

"Alright. What else?"

Brenda scanned the selection. "It's funny and sad. The Post-It here is instructions on how to use the washing machine in the building. It emphasizes to only use laundry soap in the machines, or the neighbors get angry. And it's added here, 'bring red bottle with you.'" She turned to look at Sharon. "You said you found their passports and such. Where were they from?"

Before Sharon could answer, Sykes piped up. "According to their papers, they came to LA in 2012 from Isuprovo. It's a village in the Kostroma region, near the Volga river, about six hours north of Moscow."

"I'm familiar with the country's geography," Brenda said, giving Sykes a withering look. "Kostroma is extremely rural. Some of the villages there have only twenty or thirty houses, so it's not surprising that these people didn't know how to use a washing machine. Or—" Brenda pointed at another note— "how to walk to their local bank to get a Cashier's check," then another— "how to add minutes to their disposable phone, and even how to use a cell phone"— and lower— "where your kid goes to school and the bus that takes here there." Brenda frowned. "Although that's written in a child's hand, like she had to figure it out herself."

"What about the rest of the apartment?" Sharon asked.

"More of the same. The note on the microwave says how to heat up food, with a warning to never put metal in it. There are reminders to pay bills on certain days, and when I looked through the boxes real quick, I see papers that describe a utility company's logo and then the words, "keeps house warm," or "makes water hot" next to it. There are a lot of Russian curse words directed about how expensive it costs to live in LA." Brenda's audience laughed.

"Some of these little scraps of paper like this one over here are warnings, things to see on the way out the door, as if to remind them about how dangerous LA is. For example, 'don't look a dark person in the eye' is over here." She looked up apologetically at the people of color in the room. "Russia is pretty homogenous, especially in remote regions, so uneducated people like these are going to be frightened by the diversity they see here. I like this one: 'everyone in America carries a gun.' And this one: 'women get attacked.'"

"Sad," Sharon murmured.

"I was workin' my way up to the big one, See the large printin' at the top, the one in dark marker? It says, 'Remember we don't belong here. We are here for a purpose.'"

Sharon's interest was piqued. "What purpose? Did anything in the rest of the apartment give you any idea?"

"Yes and no. The notes were about the same, directions to Salvation Army for clothes, the name of the one person at the bank who speaks Russian and the days she works, 'wear deodorant.' But the two maps help a little bit." Brenda gestured to the far wall, and everyone moved there en mass.

"The squad had already noted that the areas with X's and arrows was the seedier part of LA, such as areas along Sepulveda Boulevard and in Hollywood. What's interestin' is what's written next to the places they have marked on the map: '_prostitutes_.' And here and here where they X's are? That's the word for 'brothel.'" She turned around and looked at Sharon, the squad, and all the LAPD staff who were hanging on her every word.

"I know it sounds like I haven't given you much, and I'd really like to come back to the station and go through the boxes of papers, because I have a feelin' they will answer a lot more questions than all this crazy stuff on the wall." Sharon nodded her assent. "But I think we learned something really important about this family, and it's got be significant in their murder." Brenda paused.

(_Ten, eleven, twelve_). "Chief Johnson, no need for drama, please," Sharon said.

Brenda frowned. "I wasn't being dramatic, Shar—Captain. I was just gatherin' my thoughts." She cleared her throat. "A lot of people come from Russia with the hopes of a better life for themselves and their families. They have heard a lot about the US and are eager to assimilate and settle into their new country, and they do whatever they can to put down roots to get permanent resident status. However, I don't think that is the case with the Popova's. They can barely make it to work without carrying a cheat sheet. They seem scared of other Americans. I see no sign that they are learnin' English, are workin' hard to integrate their child into American culture. These people came from rural Russia and had never seen the likes of LA. They seemed very unhappy here, and were scared and overwhelmed. I see no attempts at assimilation. So that raises the question: what made them come? And why have they stayed for over a year?"

Sharon looked up at the note written in marker. "'We are here for a purpose.'" she murmured.

"Exactly," Brenda said. "They are in LA for a reason. And judgin' from the way they live, it seems like nothin' else matters."

"Find the purpose and find the motive for their murder." Sharon looked at Brenda, and she silently nodded in agreement.

* * *

Brenda drove back to the LAPD after the squad had dispersed. Some were going back to Major Crimes, others to the restaurant it was thought that one of the Popova's worked at, and a few were sent home for the evening. Brenda had to find street parking outside of HQ like a commoner, and then sign in as a guest. The desk officers didn't even recognize who she was, and for some reason that really galled her. When she caught them staring at her ass she wanted to turn around and demand, "don't you know who I am?" before a verbal castration and writing them up. But she couldn't do things like that anymore. she was just a civilian, and she seethed inside from the helplessness.

She walked in to her old squad room just a few seconds after Sharon Raydor exited from an adjoining elevator. "Thanks for coming, Brenda, " Sharon said, a stiffness in her voice that made Brenda uncomfortable. _What did I do to deserve this? It's 11AM the Friday before Christmas, my Daddy is bein' ignored, Fritz is mad at me, all so I can help out. What's Sharon's problem? _she , she forced herself to smile and said, "I'm happy to help out. I think goin' though those boxes should answer some questions for you."

Out of habit, Brenda walked toward her old office, her mind already sifting through the content of those cardboard boxes SID hauled out of the crime scene that she was told were waiting for her.

Sharon cleared her throat loudly. "Uh, Brenda?_"_

"Hmmm?" Her hand was on the doorknob and her mind was speaking to her in Russian.

"I thought you would sit over there." Brenda turned around, and Sharon was pointing to an unused desk at the edge of the office. Three cardboard boxes were stacked next to it. "Unless that's a problem."

Brenda blushed a deep magenta and withdrew her hand from the knob like it was on fire. She smoothed down her skirt and turned with as much dignity as possible. "No problem whatsoever, Captain Raydor," she said, holding her head high. She walked over to the small desk and sat down in the chair, her spine straight, and did her best to ignore the squeak of the wheels.

"Great," Sharon said, and Brenda thought she heard a hint of triumph in her silky voice. "I'll be in here if you need anything." She opened her office door and went in, leaving it slightly ajar.

_I'll be here, in your former office while you sit at that crappy desk like a probie, sucker, you mean_, Brenda thought. She reached down to pull contents from the top box. ignoring the sting of tears in her eyes.

A couple hours later, Brenda stared at the photos she had propped up at the edge of the temporary desk. There were just a few of them, but they helped to tell the story, like illustrations in a child's story book. She had gone through the three boxes and sorted material into three categories: bills and financial information, more instructional notes, and material that was worth translating, as it may be relevant to the case. So far, her triage system proved to be excellent. With each new document she picked up and read, a smaller piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

Sanchez and Sykes had returned an hour ago from Little Russia, the restaurant the Popova's both worked at. At first the employees were extremely reluctant to talk to the cops, but then Sanchez unleashed just the right threats to loosen tongues. The manager said Artem and Elena Popova showed up the previous fall and begged for work. He was born in a nearby village in Russia and immigrated when he was a little boy, he explained, and he felt a kinship to them, so he hired them both to work in the kitchen full time for a for a little above minimum wage. They were good employees, he said. Never late, didn't call in sick, always sober. They had to bring their kid to work a couple of times, which made him unhappy, but they just stuck her in an empty function room for the evening with a book and she was fine.

"We should have brought the Chief with us, like I suggested, " Sanchez said, tossing a dirty look at Raydor. "A lot of the other staff didn't speak English and the manager translated, but who knows what they were really saying?"

Brenda was still smarting from her accidental-office reclaiming fiasco, but she had been involved in enough power struggles to know that often every little push is met with a much greater pull. If Sharon felt a shift in the squad's loyalties, it could affect their hard-earned friendship, and thus her relationship with Rusty, and Brenda wasn't going to let that happen.

"You know, Julio, you don't have to call me 'Chief'. I'm not an LAPD Deputy Chief anymore." It still pained her to say the words out loud.

Sanchez shrugged. "You're still Chief of something," he said. "That's good enough for me."

Sykes looked around, confused at the tension in the room, and picked up the story. "Anyways, what the male workers told us was Artem asked them on several occasions about where he could go to find Russian prostitutes. They thought he was a little obsessed."

"Hmm," Sharon said. "Did they tell him?"

"Yes," Sykes said. "And the areas they pointed out correlated with the ones marked on the map."

"So the guy was really into home-grown pu-, er, hookers," Sanchez said. "Whatever. But what was really weird was this one young guy we talked to just happened to be in North Hollywood late one night saw Mrs. Popova talking to a bunch of prostitutes."

"Really?" Sharon said. "Was he sure she wasn't a prostitute herself?"

"Highly doubtful," Brenda said. She pulled a picture of Elena off her desk and passed it around. The short, plump 40-something is in a plain wedding gown stretched over her pregnant belly, a smile on her broad Slavic face. "This was taken eight years ago. I don't see her as prime prostitute material, do you?"

"Oh no, absolutely not," Sanchez said with an exaggerated style, and Sykes gave him a dirty look.

"And now for the obvious question," Sharon said. "Any enemies? Anyone want them dead?"

"Everyone was really surprised to hear they were murdered, "Sykes said. "But it didn't seem like they were all that close to the rest of the staff. They worked hard and pretty much kept to themselves. They didn't share anything about their personal lives at all. People said if they hadn't seen them bring in Vika a few times, they would never have known they had a daughter, because they never talked about her."

"So to answer your question, Captain, no enemies, no beefs with anyone at the restaurant. They didn't owe anyone money, and no one ever hung around looking for them. Except for the husband asking about Russian hookers, neither one of them ever said anything interesting, as far as I can tell. They just sort of blended into the background."

Brenda nodded. "I think they liked it that way," she said.

. Their information delivered, Sykes and Sanchez drifted back to their desks and started on the thankless tasks of contacting ICE for any information on the Popova's they might have. Brenda picked up another stack of paper and began to read.

_Prostitutes. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place_, Brenda thought. She took a swig of her lukewarm coffee and tried to focus on the scribbled notes in Artem's hand in front of her, but she was seeing double.

...

"Brenda," Sharon said. She nearly jumped out of her skin, not having heard the woman approach. Or did she just fall asleep? The woman was standing in front of her, looking amazingly unruffled in a navy suit, wearing…sneakers?

Sharon held her hands out in surrender. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, but I think that's all we can do for tonight. Unless you have something to share. You have been very quiet over here."

Brenda rubbed her face. "I'm gettin' a complete picture, Sharon, but I don't want to say anythin' until things are a little more clear." Brenda caught Sharon's sigh of frustration. "Now, that would bother me too, but with each sheet of paper I translate, it either confirms my suspicions, or it could take me in a completely different direction. These handwritten notes aren't in any order, and it's not like a computer where you can sort files by when they were last updated to put the contents into a chronological order. I don't have the luxury to findin' out if what I'm readin' has anythin' to do with recent goin' ons, or is an old grocery list that's ten years old."

"Okay, I understand. But I think we're all tired. Why don't we go home and get some sleep? Can you come back tomorrow and summarize what you've found when you have finished looking at everything? I would really appreciate it if you could."

Brenda nodded. "Of course I will. Could I take one of these boxes home with me in case I can't sleep."

Sharon didn't hesitate. "No, sorry."

Brenda's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because that's evidence in a homicide, and it shouldn't leave the chain of command. And I think that speaks to how tired you must be to even suggest such a thing."

Brenda opened her mouth to protest, but Sharon cut it off. "Brenda, it's not a bloody glove. It you have some things you want to work at when you are at home, just go Xerox them."

She shut her mouth and nodded, then grabbed a few documents and headed towards Provenza's copier, making a mental note to drop off a few coins on her way out the door.

* * *

"Fritz!" Claire squealed, and Fritz was sure some of the not-quite-right-shade-of-green paint peeled off the walls from the sound. His arms were full of his manic, squirming sister.

"I can't believe I'm here! I made it! Yea me!" Claire chanted, hugging him again.

He pulled her away and looked at her, his sleepy brain barely able to compute.

"Claire, I talked to you this morning and you were in Missouri. How the hell did you get here so fast?" he asked.

Claire put a hand over her mouth like a little kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Well Fritzy, I might have fudged my location a bit. I really didn't want to worry you."

"Worry me about what? That you bent time to get out hers so fast? Claire, what's going on?"

She laughed. "Nothing, big brother! I just started driving two days ago and I was so upset about, well, I'm not going to even say his name, and before I knew it, it was night time, and I wasn't the least bit tired, so I just kept going. The more I thought about what I jerk he was, the madder I got, and the more energy I had. So I just powered on through!"

Fritz shook his head. "Wait a minute, Claire. Are you telling me you drove here straight from New Jersey without ever stopping to sleep? Are you insane?"

"Fritz, calm down. I'm not crazy! Of course I stopped to sleep! There are rest stops everywhere. When I got tired I just pulled over, locked my doors, and slept for a couple of hours. And when I woke up I got some Starbucks, and since I don't usually drink coffee it was like HELLO open road, here I come! Vroom vroom! And once I bought the Prius after my Beatle died…" Claire then noticed Clay standing behind Fritz, who cleared his throat loudly.

"Mr. Johnson!" she said brightly. "I was so happy to hear you were going to be sharing our Christmas!" Fritz winced. He was pretty sure Clay thought that Claire was intruding on _his_ Christmas, not vice versa.

"Claire, do you always show up at people's houses in the middle of the night and wake everybody up like this? Weren't you raised with better manners?" Clay asked sourly.

Instead of looking insulted, Claire had a look of pity on her face, and lunged toward Clay, dropping her bag on Fritz's foot as she did so. She wrapped a startled Clay in a bear hug, which he did not reciprocate.

"Oh you poor man!" she crooned as she tried to rock the large man back and forth. "This time of year must be so hard without Willie Rae. I am so, so, SO sorry about her crossing over, I really am."

Clay managed to pull his arms free from Claire's grasp and peeled her off of him. "First of all, my Willie Rae died, she didn't cross over. I just can't stand euphemisms for death. And second of all—"

"Daddy?" Everyone turned to find Brenda, who was standing in the front door. "What's goin' on, for heaven's sake? Why is everyone up, and Claire—why are you here already?"

Brenda look exhausted. Fritz wanted to go and wrap his arms around her, but he wasn't sure how well that would be received in light of their argument. He held back.

Before Claire's mania could rev up, Fritz said, "honey, Claire pretty much drove straight through and got here about five minutes ago. Your dad and I woke up to her knocking on the door."

"Pounding on it is more like it," Clay said, glowering at the blonde woman who was still in his personal space. "And if she hadn't woken us up, I'm sure you traipsing in at three in the morning would have. I come here all the way from Atlanta and you can't even be bothered to pick me up from the airport? Would you like to explain yourself?"

"No," Brenda said brusquely. "I'm sure Fritz told you the situation, and he was gracious enough to fetch you from LAX by himself."

_Score one for me_, Fritz thought.

Brenda continued, "I'm really glad you're here, Daddy, and if you weren't so grumpy I'd give you a hug, although it looks like Claire beat me to it." Claire and Clay both opened their mouths to respond, but Brenda cut them off.

"Listen y'all, it's late, and I haven't had a day this endless in a long time." Her voice took that "don't mess with me" tone that Fritz loved. "Now here's what's gonna happen. Daddy, you go on back to bed. We will catch up tomorrow over breakfast, when we are both in better moods." She gave him a look and he stayed silent. "Claire, since you are here a couple of days earlier than we thought, we don't have the air mattress set up for you in Fritz's study, so Fritz will get you some sheets and blankets to make up the couch."

"Oh, I'm barely tired!" she exclaimed. "I had a Venti latte with an extra shot a few hours ago and I'm wide awake!"

"Then watch TV, Claire, because Fritz and I are goin' to bed," she said wearily. "As a veteran of being wound up after a lot of late nights, I suggest watching TNT. There's always some stupid procedural on."

"But-"

"There are no buts, there are only beds. I will see you in the mornin', Daddy and Claire. Fritz, I will see you in the bedroom once you got your sister settled in." Brenda walked past them in into the back hallway, leaving them all to follow her instructions.

Brenda was already in bed with her teeth brushed and in her cat PJ's by the time Fritz got back to the bedroom. He sat down on her side of the bed and tried to catch her eye, but she stubbornly refused to look at him.

"Hey," he said softly. "I'm really sorry about last evening. I overreacted, okay?"

Brenda curled up in fetal position and rolled over away from him. "Why?" Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

"Why what, honey?"

"Why did you act like that, Fritz? Like Major Crimes is an old boyfriend you are just sure I'm going to hook up with again?" She rolled farther away from him, and he realized he was losing her. He gently placed a hand on her back. She flinched, but he refused to remove it.

"Because I love you so much, and I can't stand the idea of ever going back to that life we used to live, where the LAPD owned you. And before you say it, I know consulting for a night is different. Like I said, I overreacted, and I'm really sorry, honey." He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breaths and the heat of her skin through her flannel top. Finally she sighed.

"Come to bed, Fritz," she said, and he knew he was forgiven.

* * *

Just as dawn broke, Brenda crept from her bed, making sure Fritz was sleeping soundly. She grabbed her black bag and tiptoed to Fritz's study. Since it wasn't Claire's guest room yet, it was still and quiet.

She sat down at the desk and pulled out a folder with several pieces of paper covered in Russian and a couple of envelopes from her cavernous purse. Although she had gone through the motions in Major Crimes, she had Xeroxed nothing.

Brenda didn't dwell on her incredibly juvenile response to Sharon's authority. Instead she picked up one of the envelopes and pulled out a smudged and clearly much read letter, skimming the contents yet again. She had to make sure she was interpreting the Russian it was written in correctly, because she was sure this letter was the reason the Popova's were dead.

**END CHAPTER 6 **

**When you see a stack of newspapers with no one tending them, you just don't take one. You put $$$ in the jar first. That's what fanfic is like. It's on the honor system. I leave my stories here, and I trust you to leave a review as payment. The jar is right below, with the big "Review" button on it. Thanks!  
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13


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: ****I want to thank the Guests who have reviewed my story. Thank you, and please continue to let me know what you think Guests bum me out, because I like to send a PM to everyone who has left me a review, and I can't do that for Guest. So sign up to this site! Get PMs from me! What a deal!  
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**POV? Hey, you figure it out!**

**Chapter 7**

Sharon ran.

She ran as fast as she could, the cool morning air cleansing her lungs with each deep, hungry breath. Her muscles hurt from the strain, sweat stung her eyes, and a terrible stitch was stabbing her in the side. Still, she didn't slow down. _This is punishment,_ she thought. _I deserve to hurt._

Fatigue finally overrode self-flagellation and she stopped in a small park, empty in the early hour. She sat on the ground, gasping for air and gripping her belly. She tried to slow her desperate breaths but the air hunger was way out of control. _Control,_ mocked her oxygen-starved brain. _It's all about control with you, isn't it_?

Sharon leaned her head back, the rivulets of sweat rolling into her hair. Memories of her behavior yesterday came back to her, the small pissing matches she had gotten into with Brenda Leigh Johnson. She never thought she'd say this, but Brenda pretty much took the high road the entire day. She had not.

Although when Brenda tried to walk into her office, well, that was pretty funny.

Sharon gave up and collapsed on the grass, dewy wet and cool against her sweaty skin. She stared up at the cloudless sky and thought about how small it made her feel. _That's it_, she thought. _That's how Brenda makes me feel when we work together. Small, slow, and old. They threw me into this job without the rank or experience, and I've done a damn fine job. But when I see Brenda back in her natural habitat, I realize what a poor substitute I am_.

A feeling of angst washed over her, so strong that she couldn't move even if her beleaguered muscles allowed her to. She lay there as if pressed to the ground by an unseen hand as the truth bore down on her, unbidden but undeniable.

_It's obvious to anyone with eyes. Brenda never should have left Major Crimes. She belongs there. And I belong in Internal Affairs. And damn if Turell Baylor didn't create ripples that upset way too many things in the Universe._

Sharon thought about what her life would be like now if that young man didn't kill a convenience shop owner and his grandson. _ So much calmer, so much less stress, and I wouldn't be treating a woman I call my friend like shit._

She suddenly sat up straight, motivated by a thought._ I wouldn't have Rusty. He'd still be working Sunset Strip, giving $20 blow jobs. _That thought grounded her, reeled her in. She was never one to waste time on "what if's" because that got you exactly nowhere. Why was she starting now? _Oh yea, because working with Brenda is regressing me to a teenager_.

Sharon stood up and brushed the grass off her hands. She was a woman of action, not of useless contemplation. She had to snap out of whatever this was and set her agenda. First and foremost, she needed to wrap up this case so she could spend time with Rusty. Ricky was supposed to have arrived today, and in lieu of that, she would like to be able to do some fun things with him to fill his time. So in order to solve this triple homicide, she had to get whatever information Brenda gleaned from the boxes of papers, and to do that, Sharon needed play nice and apologize for her behavior. Sharon thought as she stretched out her calves, _maybe not apologize. At least I can be a lot nicer. She's my friend, and I don't want to lose that because I'm feeling insecure._

Sharon started a slow jog back toward her home, less intent on punishing herself. She had a goal in mind and identified the steps to get there. Clean and precise, the way she liked things. As far as her discomfort about being outshone by Ms. Brenda Leigh, well, those feelings needed to be stuffed back in the hole where they came from.

* * *

When Brenda heard her father walk into the kitchen, she put away the papers and notes she was working on in Fritz's study to in order to join him. She hoped he was in a better mood than last night. She had only gotten three hours of sleep, and patience was in short supply.

Clay was making coffee when she walked in. "Hi Daddy," she said, giving her father a one-armed hug as she set her purse on the floor. "Good to see you."

Clay returned the hug and poured the water into the Mr. Coffee. "You too, honey. I'm surprised to see you up so early. I thought you'd be sleeping in, what with coming in so late and all."

Brenda got out a pan and searched through the fridge, pulling out eggs and bacon. "I've been up for awhile, working on the translations for the LAPD. And don't go startin' on me, Daddy." She turned around, food in hand. "I got Fritz givin' me a hard time, and that's bad enough. Sharon's workin' a murder of an eight-year-old girl and her parents, and there was no one around to translate all evidence in Russian. That's all I'm doin."

"No cop stuff?" Clay sounded suspicious.

"Of course no cop stuff!" Brenda said. "You think they just give you your badge and gun back any old time they're shorthanded? That's not the way it works." She put the skillet on the burner and turned on the heat.

"That's just what Fritz said."

Brenda turned around. "That's what Fritz said about what?"

Clay walked over the stove and gently nudged Brenda out of the way, giving her the message that she should leave the eggs to him. He put a pat of butter and swirled it around.

"That's what Fritz told me when I asked him if you were working as a cop again. I was worried that's what was going on, and he wasn't being honest with me.

_Oh no_. "Daddy, why did you ask him that?"

"Because, sweetheart, you were telling me how much you missed Major Crimes last time you were home."

Brenda stomach tightened. "Daddy, you didn't tell Fritz about me sayin' that, did you? Because that conversation was in confidence."

Clay paused after cracking his third egg. "Um, I might have. I didn't know it was a big secret. Besides, married people tell each other everything, don't they?"

For a split second, Brenda had the urge to pick up the skillet and whack her father over the head with it. She had shared her longing with her father during a late-night conversation, something that happened frequently during her visits home, a newfound closeness that she treasured. But if he didn't have the common sense to know what to not to repeat, she was going to have to monitor every word that came out of her mouth.

"Daddy," she said through clenched teeth, "I strongly doubt that there has ever been a successful marriage where secrets _weren't_ kept. And thanks for lettin' me know that I can no longer trust you with personal information."

"But honey—"

Good morning everyone!" Brenda and Clay turned to see Claire standing in the doorway, dressed in a Gaim tee-shirt and shorts.

"Oh Claire," Brenda said. "I forgot you were asleep on the couch. I'm really sorry if we woke you."

Claire yawned and stretched. "No problem, sister," she said, far more subdued than usual. "I'm usually up a lot earlier than this every morning doing yoga."

"Yea, but you haven't slept in two days."

"All I need to do is some asanas to get my chi flowing and I'll be fine," Claire said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Is she even speaking English?" Clay whispered to Brenda.

"You know, Mr. Johnson, yoga would be good for you. I sense a lot of your energy is blocked, especially around your heart chakra."

"Okay, now I know you are using words that aren't in the English language."

"We seem to have a culture clash here," Brenda said, eager to stop a fight before it began. "Claire, how many eggs would you like?"

Claire shook her head. "Sister sister sister, how could you ask me that? You know I'm a Vegan! I don't eat anything that used to have a face."

"Eggs don't have faces," Clay said

."But their mother do," Claire answered.

"Eggs have mothers?"

"Uh, yea, what do you call those poor chickens who are trapped in cages and force fed antibiotics before slaughter?"

Brenda's temple was beginning to pound. "Claire, Fritz went to the local health food store and got a bunch of food for you. There's oatmeal and granola in the cabinet over there, and soy milk and other soy-type things in the fridge."

"Great! A girl's gotta get her fiber!"

"Make the toast, Brenda Leigh, and hand me that bacon over there," Clay instructed. "And for heaven's sake, go wake up that husband of yours." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "We need to have the ratio of sane to insane people as high as possible."

...

Breakfast was lively, with Claire becoming more awake with each sip of coffee she took. Brenda had to hand it to her, though: she took her father's barbed comments in stride, and volleyed back with dry humor. Toward the end of the meal, Clay was outright calling Claire "a dirty hippy" and he didn't blanch when she called him "a stodgy old man."

"You really need to do some yoga with me, Mr. Johnson," Claire said. "It's amazing how much it helps with stiff joints."

Clay shook his head. "No way, not my cup of tea. I stay active my own way that doesn't require the wearin' of tights. I do not look my best in tights."

Claire looked thoughtful. "Okay then, do you want to take a walk with me after breakfast?"

Clay paused for a moment, and then said, "sure, that would be fine."

Brenda looked over at Fritz, who raised his eyebrow at her in wonder. Brenda thought back to the only other time when Clay and Claire where together, and that was their wedding. It occurred to her that it was her mother, not her father, that had a problem with Claire. Clay didn't complain: he just refereed. _Maybe this Christmas won't be so bad after all_, she thought.

As she gathered her bag to head back to the LAPD, apologies and promises fell out of her mouth like a waterfall. Fritz looked disappointed, but didn't protest. There was something in his eyes that bothered her, but she didn't have time to dwell. Her unspoken mantra from her LAPD days floated through her mind: "_murder today, feelings tomorrow_."

* * *

When Brenda got to Major Crimes, there were signs that people were around—jackets thrown on the back of chairs, coffee cups on desks—but no one was there. Brenda knew the familiar signs: they were watching an interview.

Flynn, Provenza, and Tao were in the Electronics room, watching Sharon Raydor talk to an attractive woman in her early 40's.

"She doesn't look like a murderer to me," Brenda said, startling the men as she slipped in quietly.

"You should know by now, Chief, that murders don't always look like murders," Provenza said.

"True that," she said. "Y'all mind if I watch?"

"Are you done with the translations?" Flynn said sarcastically.

Anger flared up in her. When was he ever going to forgive her for…whatever he thinks she did wrong?

In a honeyed voice, she said, "No, Lieutenant, I'll be wrappin' those up just as soon as we determine my hourly rate." Flynn opened his mouth to reply, but Provenza nudged his foot.

Brenda wanted to refocus on the interview. "So who do we have here?" she asked.

"One of the black and whites who's watching the crime scene called us. The woman is the mother of the little girl's best friend, and she came at the apartment to pick her up for a play date or something," Tao said. "They sent her down here."

Brenda reached over and turned up the volume on the interview.

"…know what happened. Is Vika okay? Is she here with you?" The woman's voice was high-pitched and she clenched her hands in anxiety.

"Ms. Costello, please calm down. I really need to ask you some questions."

"But where is Vika? I have to pick her up—"

"Vika is with the County," Sharon lied.

"Oh, that's awful," Provenza said. "Yea, she sure is with the County. The County _morgue_, that is."

The woman visibly relaxed. "Something happened to her parents, though, didn't it? I'm not going to answer any of your questions until you answer mine. Are her parents dead?"

"Yes," Sharon replied. "Elena and Artem Popova were found murdered. And since Vika isn't in any shape to tell us what happened, I'm hoping you can answer some questions."

"Nope, she certainly isn't in any shape at all to give us any information," Provenza said dryly. Morales's patients never are."

"You are horrible," Brenda said. "Now hush."

"Oh my god. Did Vika witness it?" Ms. Costello whispered. Her eyes filled with tears.

Sharon didn't miss a beat. "No. Now, we don't have many leads and we really need your help."

The woman nodded. "Sorry. And call me Carolyn."

"Why were you at the apartment today?"

"Vika and my daughter Michelle are best friends. The two are inseparable. Vika spends every Saturday night at our house, and tonight my husband and I are taking the girls to see the Nutcracker. Anyways, some weekends I just pick both girls up from school on Friday and keep Vika through Sunday. I guess that's what I should have done this weekend." The woman teared up.

"I hope Raydor tells this woman she died Thursday night," Tao murmured.

"You must know her parents, then? The Popova's? What can you tell me about them?"

"I can't tell you much," Carolyn said, shaking her head slowly. "Vika came at the beginning of the school year last year and didn't speak a word of English. My daughter took her under her wing, and I met her one day when I was picking Michelle up. Poor thing, she seemed so lost. My dad was born in Russia, and he immigrated as a teenager with my grandparents. I know how hard life can be over there, so I figured her parents had it rough. I drove Vika home and when I saw how she lived, I asked if she could spend the night with Michelle. Or I should say, I called up my dad, told him what I wanted, and he talked the Popova's. They were more than happy to have her come to my house. A complete stranger, too." Carolyn shook her head.

"What did you think of them?" Sharon asked.

Carolyn wiped her eyes. "I honestly rarely interact with them. Clearly they are, uh, were, poor, and were having a very hard time adjusting to this country. That's understandable. Mr. Popova was a big guy, kind of intimidating. Elena was more reserved, but it seemed like she did whatever he husband said. I could tell Vika was desperate for their attention. I started taking Vika every weekend, and if we had to check on something, like an extra night for a three day weekend or something like that, Vika would call their cell phone. And I could tell she was always hoping her parents would say no, they wanted her home. But they never did."

"Let me get this straight," Sharon said. "You took care of Vika every single weekend, sometimes both Friday and Saturday nights, for the past year? That was incredibly generous of you."

Carolyn shrugged. "It was very clear to me that Vika as neglected at home. I only saw the apartment once or twice, but what a horrible place for a child. I just have Michelle, but my husband and I wanted more kids, so I like having Vika around. She's incredibly well-behaved, and she's already fluent in English, after only one year in LA. She's a smart little thing." She smiled a mother's pride.

"Carolyn, do you know anyone that would want to hurt Vika or her family? Has she ever mentioned anything to your daughter about being afraid, or talked about scary people around the apartment?"

She shook her head no. "But I got the feeling that Vika was told to keep her mouth shut about a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"Now, this is just my suspicion, but Vika let something slip that gave me the impression she was left alone during the evenings while her parents worked, not all the time, because I know she went to the restaurant with them too, but occasionally. When I asked her directly, she denied it. I wasn't convinced, though. That's another reason I like to have her on the weekend. I know her parents work at Little Russia every single Saturday night, and that worried me, her all alone in that rundown apartment."

"Why in the world didn't this woman call Social Services on this family?" Brenda asked. "If she had suspicions was bein' neglected."

"She probably knew they either wouldn't do anything, or if they did, the court system would be overwhelming for the Popova's. Besides, she's not saying she saw any sign of abuse, and she had her on the weekends to look for bruise or signs of outright abuse. She watched out for Vika, better than Social Services ever could," Tao said.

Brenda nodded at this logic and turned back to the monitor.

"… anything else you can tell us, anything at all? Even the smallest thing that may seem insignificant to you can be really helpful. Something Vika might have said in passing?"

"There is something," Carolyn said slowly "It's probably nothing. You have to understand, Vika is a quiet child, really passive. But this one time, she and Michelle were out in the back yard playing hide and go seek, and I guess Michelle didn't hide very well, because Vika found her quickly. And Vika went a little nuts yelling at her, which she _never_ did. I ran outside because Michelle actually looked scared. Vika had her by the arm and was screaming, 'don't you know that people who run away can never be found that fast? I have to look and look and look for you!" or something like that. It took me 20 minutes to calm her down, and then she wouldn't talk about it. It was really strange."

"Yes, it was," Sharon nodded, and started to gather her paperwork. Interview over.

"And now for the reckoning," Provenza said.

Carolyn put her hand on Sharon's forearm, stilling her movements. "maybe you can tell me, Captain. How can I file to become Vika's emergency foster mother? I don't want her in some County home, especially at Christmas. Can you tell me how that's done? And where did you say she was again?"

Brenda turned and walked out of the Electronics room. She knew what was coming next, and she didn't feel like watching it. Sharon had to tell the woman the terrible truth about the little girl she loved. A mother's grief—and this woman might as well be Vika's mother—was thick and viscous, threatening to suck in and drown anyone nearby. And there was always an infinite supply that flowed freely from a parent's broken heart. Brenda had no idea how Sharon, as a mother, could paddle hard enough to keep her head up to breathe through a notification like this.

...

A few hours later, Brenda was ready. The last of the documents were translated, the final piece of the puzzle slid into place. Augmented by information provided by the Russian Consulate and ICE, she was ready to present.

Alright, everybody," she said, grabbing a stack of papers and heading to the white board. The entire squad stopped what they were doing, and Sharon came out of her office. A frisson went down her spine. How many times had she done this? One hundred, two hundred? It felt as natural as breathing.

"Can I have y'all's attention? I got the last of the evidence translated, and I have some very useful information for all of you."

"About time," Andy Flynn said softly. Brenda ignored him.

"This is information I got from a lot of handwritten notes and a couple of informative letters, and a few things were confirmed thanks to y'all's hard work pokin' the Consulate for information." She nodded in Syke's direction. Sykes beamed.

Brenda pointed to the morgue photo of the murdered man. "Artem Popova, age 58, a farmer from the Kostroma region of Russia. Before Elena, he was married to a woman named Pasha. Pasha died—not sure of what of or exactly when—but we know she left a young daughter behind. Katerina." Brenda turned to the white board and wrote "Katerina Popova, age 19" on it, and posted a picture of two blonde girls, one around two and the other a very young teenager. "We are presuming that is Katerina here," she pointed to the older girl. "This is Vika. The picture is obviously about six years old."

"Did Katerina come with them from Russia?" asked Sykes. Because I didn't see any papers…"

"Please let me finish," Brenda said sharply. "Artem Popova remarried about eight years ago, when Katerina was eleven. Here—" she posted another photo "—is their weddin' picture. And here is Katerina, lookin' none too happy that her father got remarried." In the grainy portrait, Artem has his arm around his new, and visibly pregnant, bride. Katerina looked as if she refused to stand next to her father, and is off to the side a few feet with her arms crossed over her chest and a deep scowl on her face.

"Looks like a typical pre-teen girl to me," Provenza said.

"Not quite. Elena tried to be a good stepmother, but Katerina was angry that her father's attention was taken away by a new baby and a new wife. And along came a woman named Galena. Galena was from a small village nearby but had status in the community and was considered "worldly" because she went back and forth to Moscow. Galena approached Katerina when she was 16 and said, 'hey, if you have bein' at home, there are great waitressin' jobs in Moscow. You can make a ton of money and be rid of this horrible backwards village.'"

"Oh no," Tao said.

"She was trafficked, wasn't she," Sharon said not as a question but as a statement, from the back of the room.

"Yes, she was. She was taken to Albania for several months and was forced to work in a brothel. From there they smuggled her into the US, most likely through Canada, and brought to LA."

"Wait a minute," Flynn said, rising from his desk. " Human traffickers are scary assholes but they are good at what they do. They move these girls around in front of Immigration like pieces on a chessboard. How the hell do we know she's in LA, or even in the US for that matter? She was smuggled in, and it's not like ICE is gonna have a record of it."

Brenda rifled through her papers and pulled out the threadbare letter she got up early this morning to pore over. She held it up for all to see. "This. Somehow, Katerina was able to send a letter to her father. It's postmarked from LA two years ago. How she got away from her captors, I have no idea. But we know one thing: she either speaks enough English to negotiate a post office, or enough to get someone to mail this for her. Either way, it's extraordinary."

"Brenda, can you read us the letter?" Sharon asked.

Brenda picked up a yellow legal pad, where here English translation was.

"It's postmarked August 13, 2011.

_Dear Poppa,_

_If this letter gets to you, please know it was a miracle that made it happen. It will take great planning and effort to mail this, but my desire to contact you is so strong, I am willing to take the chance that I may get caught. But there is a part of me, too, that hopes you never read it, because I know it will break your heart. _

_Perhaps I am selfish, but I don't want you to live the rest of your life thinking I ran away and chose to never came back. I love you too much to ever do that, and I'm sorry for the terrible things I did that led me to where I am now. I have put you through so much, and you have been such a good father to me. When Mother died, you loved me twice as hard. You married Elena, who was very kind to me, and tried to care for me like her own. And I thanked you by abandoning you._

_Let me tell you what happened, as horrible as it is. You know that woman who sometimes visits the village named Galena, the one with the fancy clothes and all the money? She approached me after my 16__th__ birthday and asked me if I'd like to go to Moscow. She said there was work there for waitresses, and I would make a lot of money. This sounded like a dream come true. I was so angry at you for marrying Elena, and I resented Vika. I am ashamed of myself for feeling this way, but I must speak the truth. I arranged to sneak out in the middle of the night and met Galena, who promised to take me to Moscow with her for great adventures._

_Instead, she took me to hell. Soon I met up with other girls, and a group of men grabbed us and said we had to obey them. Galena disappeared. We traveled through the back roads and across lakes at night to Albania, where my life was torn apart. They made us work as whores, Poppa. I was just a girl, and there were many younger than me. I lost count of how many men used me each day. I just closed my eyes and dreamed of working on the farm with you, Vika and her soft baby skin, Mother when she was alive. I survived, and I did not lose my mind like some of the others. A scary man came to pick out pretty girls, and he liked me, so he smuggled me to the United States. There is not enough room in this letter to tell you about all the horrors on that journey. But now I am in America in a city called Los Angeles. The ocean is here, but I have never seen it. Where I'm kept is beautiful, especially in comparison to the brothel in Albania, and only a few men a night use me. I have nice clothes and good food. But if I say too much I am badly beaten, and the big man who owns me holds a gun to my head and tells me he will shoot me if I try to run. All my captors tell me if I ever got away, there is no place for me to go. I know they are right. I speak a little English, you would be proud of me, but not enough to get help. And like they tell me, who would help a whore anyways?_

_I know I will never see you again, beloved Poppa, and sometimes I come close to killing myself rather than continue in this life without hope. But I know one day I will no longer be 19 and pretty, and the big man who will put me down just like you do to old and useless animals on the farm. I know I have greatly shamed you by telling you what I have become, and it was probably easier to believe I was dead. You can burn this letter and no one will ever know your daughter is a whore. Forget about me and focus on little Vika. Keep her close to you and love her like you loved me. I pray she will become the daughter that will make you proud and bring you strong grandsons someday._

_With all my heart, I am so sorry for all the pain I have caused you, and I hope someday you can forgive me. I love you so much. _

_Your daughter,_

_Katerina"_

The room was silent when Brenda finished he letter. When she stared speaking, her voice sounded loud and harsh in the reverent silence.

"We can fill in the missin' pieces. From the moment he got that letter, Artem Popova was determined to find his daughter. He traveled to Moscow and talked to an anti-traffickin' group, but from what he wrote in his notes, they weren't helpful at all. They were more about destroyin' networks, not finding individual victims. But despite being poor and uneducated, he got himself and his family to LA. He sold most of his farm animals and a lot of his farm land to finance his trip. Findin' his daughter was his 'purpose.'"

"All the questions about Russian prostitutes, the map with the X's on it…he's been looking for Katerina," Sharon said. "And that woman—Vika's friend's mother—said they always worked on the weekends, which wasn't the case. Sanchez got their work schedule. They arranged it so one of them was off most weekend evenings."

"So they could be out frequenting areas of LA where there are a lot of Russian prostitutes," Sanchez said.

"Makes sense. Now, unfortunately, these are the only two pictures I found of Katerina, and theyare so old they're virtually useless. Remember all the tacks and tape and stuff around the door? My guess is one of those held a more recent picture of Katerina, one that her parents pulled down and took with them when they went looking for her, to show people. The murderer probably tore it down."

"Speaking of, it looks like their poking around got back to the wrong person," Sanchez said.

Brenda nodded. "That's exactly what it looks like. Some superpimp heard that Russians were asking for a specific prostitute of his, and he didn't like that. These guys are really smart, and the Popova's were simple people. I'm sure they had no problem tracking the couple down."

"Here's my question, though," said Tao. "How do we know Katerina is still here? I mean, that letter is two years old. Human traffickers can move people all over the place, like Flynn said. That's what they do."

"Oh my gosh, I forgot that part!" Brenda flipped a couple pages on her yellow pad. "Most of the prostitutes were reluctant to give up information, but one of them said she had met Katerina. That she was one of the 'special ones.'"

"'Special?' What does that mean?" asked Sykes.

Brenda shook her head. "I'm not sure, exactly. But we know from her letter that Katerina was selected to go to the US because she was very pretty. I'm goin' with that."

"How could the Popova's be so sure this hooker had met their daughter?" asked Flynn.

"Accordin' to what Artem wrote down, the girl said' Katerina talked funny.' She was from Moscow, and so Katrina's rural dialect would sound distinctive to her. She gave Artem a couple examples of what is called 'archaic' Russian words that Katerina used, and those are indeed common in the Kostroma region."

"How long ago was that?" asked Sykes.

"Four months ago."

"My god, all that hard work for such a narrow lead," Sharon said, shaking her head. "I hope we do a lot better."

"Remember what Vika said when playin' a game with her friend. 'Don't you know that people who run away can never be fond that fast? I have to look and look and look for you.' She learned that from her parents," said Brenda.

Sharon gave her an odd look, and Brenda realized Sharon had no idea she had watched the interview with Carolyn Costello. _Just deal with it_, Brenda thought testily, feeling sore after Sharon's snippiness from yesterday.

"I'll be calling our FBI Liaison right away, because we will be needing some assistance to find someone who is an expert in human trafficking in SoCal," Sharon said.

"He's jugglin' my Daddy and his sister, so he will probably welcome the break," Brenda answered.

"Great job, Chief, we couldn't have done it without you," Provenza said, standing up and taking her hand and shaking it vigorously. Several other "yeas!" and a smattering of applause were heard throughout the murder room. Brenda smiled and basked in the glow of her success. It felt so good to be back in the saddle, to bite off a chunk of mystery and digest it into clues.

"So what do we do now?" asked Sykes. Brenda opened her mouth to answer the question when she realized everyone's eyes were now fixed on Sharon Raydor, who started assigning tasks in a clipped voice. No one was looking at her anymore. Brenda picked up her papers and shimmied out the to the side so she wouldn't interrupt everyone hanging on Sharon's every word. _Your welcome, y'all, no need thank me, I'll just scoot on out of here now that I cracked your case. I won't let the door hit me in the butt._ She grabbed her black purse and walked quickly to the stairs. She heard Sharon's voice call out to her, but she just walked faster. She knew when she was dismissed, and a sappy thank you from Sharon just wasn't going to sit well. She bolted down the stairs and Sharon's voice grew faint.

Brenda walked so quickly of Major Crimes that she passed Rusty without even seeing him. He was leaning against the back wall near the elevators, just out of sight from the squad and his foster mother. The expression on his face was inscrutable.

**END CHAP 7**

15


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: Chapter 7 was really long…my very first procedural…and the only reviewer was my loyal friend ManateeMamma? Man, that was harsh. **

**Chapter 8**

Fritz was thrilled that Brenda returned from Major Crimes by early afternoon, but his happiness deflated when she saw she was in a complete snit. She shut the bedroom began to rant and rave about all the work she did on the Popova case and how she wasn't appreciated. Fritz's phone rang just as she was reaching a crescendo, and she glared at it with such hostility he was afraid lightning bolts were going to shoot from her eyes. Risking her ire, he answered it, and it turned out to be Sharon Raydor, asking him, as FBI-LAPD liaison, for assistance in finding the right Bureau department that deals with human trafficking. She gave a quick overview of the case in her slow metronomic tone while Brenda fumed, sitting on the bed with her arms crossed, angry that her dramatic rant was interrupted before the climax.

Wanting to speed up the conversation for Brenda's sake, Fritz said, "Sharon, let me find my contact at the California's Human Trafficking Task force and they will get back to you directly. All national Task Forces work with the Human Smuggling and Trafficking Center in DC, which is made up of the CIA, Home Sec, and DOJ. With their help, you'll find whoever did this, I promise."

As soon as he hung up, Brenda slammed her hand down on the bed. "Human traffickin'! She took my punch line!"

"Your punch line?" he asked, amused, looking through the Contacts in his iPhone.

"I was the one who found out the victim's' daughter was trafficked! Me! Because I translated like a billion documents and put the pieces together. And I don't even get to tell you the story of how I got there!" she wailed.

Fritz had to get the information to Sharon quickly, yet he could tell Brenda was heading toward a meltdown. He had to multitask, a skill he mastered years ago, necessary when one has a demanding career and a demanding partner. He sat down next to Brenda and started to massage her shoulders, exclaiming how tight her muscles were while extolling her brilliance. He suggested that she take a hot shower to loosen up, and he would give her a long back rub when she finished. Reluctantly Brenda agreed and headed towards the bathroom, and he used that opportunity to run to his study and spend the next 30 minutes making phone calls. Luckily for him, when he came back to the bedroom, Brenda was napping. He hoped for everyone's sake that she might sleep off her bad attitude. Fritz wished he had a chance to talk to Sharon in private so he could ask her if something in particular happened that afternoon at the LAPD to upset Brenda. Or, was it what he suspected: she got a lick of what she really craved, her old life as a Deputy Chief, and then she had hand back the ice cream cone.

Although he initially dreaded spending time with Claire and Clay together, he soon found out that Clay served a very valuable purpose: since he didn't care about hurting other people's feelings, he dispensed with any politeness towards Claire and said things to her she needed to hear but Fritz never had the heart to say. His protective big brother side was ruffled by this, but secretly he was grateful.

When Claire saw Fritz pull out a pork loin to cook for dinner, she plowed into the kitchen. "No Fritzy, I'm going to cook! You got all those special groceries for me, so I have all the ingredients to make my self-award-winning tofurkey and a nice quinoa salad. You go rest and take care of Brenda, she seems awfully stressed. " She patted Fritz on shoulder while making a face at the pork. "Oh!" she exclaimed, her expression brightening. "My friend gave me this recipe for chocolate silk pie that you make with tofu! Can you believe it? Chocolate pie made with silken tofu! Brenda will go YUM!"

While Fritz was scrambling to think of something to convince his sister not to cook, Clay came lumbering into the kitchen. "Who the hell mixes tofu and chocolate?" he said.

"It's delicious! Brenda will love it!" Claire said defensively.

Clay snorted. "I'd pay a pretty penny to watch her choke down one piece of that."

Before Claire could answer, Clay said, "what were the other two things on your menu, Claire?"

"My tofurky recipe and a quinoa salad with carrots and raisons."

"And Fritz, what were you going to make?" Clay asked.

"Pork loin with Herbs deProvence, scalloped potatoes, and green beans."

Claire wrinkled her nose. "Oh no. What I'm cooking is so much healthier, so put that dead animal way, brother. Dinner's on me."

"Now wait one minute, Claire, I have a question for you," said Clay.

Claire made an impatient noise but didn't speak.

"As a Vegetarian—"

"As a _Vegan_—" she corrected him.

"As a Vegan, you certainly wouldn't appreciate anyone forcing you to eat normal, I mean, meat-containing food, would you?"

"Of course not."

"It wouldn't be respecting how you choose to live, right Claire?"

"Right. What's your point?"

"So why is it okay for you to force non-Vegetarians, er, Vegans to eat things like tofurkey and the like when that's not what their chosen diet is?"

"That's different."

"Not at all," Clay said. "You just said something nasty about Fritz's pork loin. If he made fun of your tofu, you would get all huffy. It's a double standard."

"Hey, I cooked for Brenda and Fritz the whole week I stayed with them before the wedding!"

Claire said, triumphant. "And they loved it! It opened them up to a whole new way of eating!"

Clary turned to Fritz. "Now tell us, son, did you enjoy your meals that week, or were you craving your normal diet something awful? Did it open you up 'to a whole new way of eating?'"

_The truths hurts_, thought Fritz. Perhaps it was time Claire learned not to be so pushy. "Well, to be honest, it opened me up to a whole new way of hiding my food," he said.

Claire looked angry and hurt, but Clay said, "don't get mad at him for being honest, Claire, especially when this is the easiest compromise in the world. Fritz will cook for him, Brenda, and me, and you make yourself whatever you like. That way, everyone will be happy."

Even Claire couldn't think of how to argue with that.

Clay's bluntness wasn't always so well received in matters other than culinary advice. Later that evening, when Claire and Brenda were splitting a bottle of Merlot and everyone was hanging out in the living room, Claire started talking about her breakup with Karl. Brenda, whose sour mood didn't improve with a nap, a good dinner, and a fair amount of wine, rolled her eyes when Claire wasn't looking, and tossed in a few "ah huhs," and "that's too bads" every once in awhile as Claire rambled on.

After about twenty minutes of Claire's laundry list of Karl's faults and a dissection of every minute of their relationship, Clay yawned. "Claire, I hate to interrupt, but I got to head to bed. But before I do, I just have to ask you something."

_I have a very bad feeling about this_, Fritz thought.

"What?" Claire said warily.

"You're a very pretty woman, you know that? You're Fritz's sister so I know you have to be smart.

But have you ever considered toning it down a bit? I mean, you come on so strong I get exhausted just being around you. I think you overwhelm men and send them running for the hills."

Claire just stared at him, then burst into tears. She got up and ran out of the room like a moody teenager.

"Way to go, Daddy," Brenda mumbled sullenly.

"What?" Clay said, arms outstretched. "You all were never going to tell her she is off the wall nutty and probably scares off everyone within a 10 mile radius, so someone should. And we are parting company in a few days, so I was happy to fall on that sword for you. And young lady—" he pointed to Brenda—"I can tell you had a bad day, but watch your attitude."

Brenda gulped down the last of the wine in her glass, and Fritz was torn between staying and comforting Brenda from her father's rebuke or going after his sister. He finally chose to comfort Claire, figuring Brenda really needed to learn to stand up to Clay. But as he held his sobbing sister on their newly purchased air mattress on his study floor, he couldn't help but feel guilty. He hadn't protected either of the women in his life tonight from Clay. What good was he?

The following day, he and Brenda agreed to separate their relatives, so no one would get sick of each other. Fritz took Claire along with him to run some last minute shopping errands for Brenda, and Brenda and her father went on a drive along the PCH highway. They met back at the house around 7PM for pizza and a night of games.

Brenda had just set her cell phone down from placing an order with Romano's when it rang again. "Must be out of mozzarella sticks," she said, then frowned at ID. "Rusty, what's up?" she said. "Hey, you give any more thought to my idea for a present for Sharon?" She paused, listening to his response. "It is not a stupid idea, it's a great idea and you know it. You're just a coward." She got up and went to the kitchen. "You want to come over now? Sure, were is Sharon? Still? What, why? Okay, see you in ten."

"What's up with Rusty?" Fritz asked.

"I have no idea," Brenda said. "He just told me he needs to come over right now and talk to me, said it's really important." She chewed her lip. She worried about him, as Sharon did, and was a second pair of maternal eyes.

"Whose Rusty?" asked Clay. "Name's familiar. One of your old squad?"

Brenda shook her head. "No, he's Sharon Raydor's foster son. You might recognize his name—" Brenda hesitated—"because Rusty was with me the night I got attacked by Phillip Stroh." She quickly turned away and took a gulp of her drink before her father could see the look on her face.

"Oh," Clay said, sagging into a chair and aging ten years.

Fritz saw one of Clay's Perry Como Christmas CD's on the table and took it to the living room and put it in the CD player in a small attempt to comfort him. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw that Claire had beaten him to the task. She stood behind Clay, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder in a gentle, comforting manner. And for once, she said nothing. Stranger still, her touch actually seemed to calm Clay.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang, and Brenda brought Rusty into the kitchen and made introductions.

Fritz should have known Claire couldn't suppress her true nature for long. She stood up and went over to Rusty, looking him over. "Ohhh, you have a lot of dark energy around you, very intense," she said, her brow furrowed.

"Huh?" Rusty said, at once confused and annoyed.

Brenda excused them and took him back to Fritz's study to talk. As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to Claire.

"Listen, you are going to be spending Christmas night with Rusty, so you need to know this. Knock the whole 'dark energy' stuff off, will you? He's just a kid and he's been badly abused. He's not going to appreciate your psychic evaluations. You are going to make him upset."

"Oh, sorry," she said. "But that does explain all the things I was seeing around him. That boy has had a lot of hurt in his life."

_Considering we just told you he was attacked by a serial killer, it doesn't take a psychic to figure that out_, Fritz thought sarcastically.

"What's with those folks in Major Crimes?" Clay said. "Always collecting strays."

"Well, you and Willie Rae are the ones who collected Grady," Fritz said, smiling. "And what a great kid he turned out to be."

"Darn tootin,'" said Clay, puffing out a bit. "Graduated collage at age 20, _summa cum laude_. We couldn't have been prouder if he was our own flesh and blood."

"Hey, last time we heard from him he just started a job at…" Fritz was interrupted by the sound of raised voices, first Brenda's, than Rusty's.

"Now why in the world is she hollerin' at that kid?" Clay asked.

"That is a really good question." Fritz excused himself to go find out.

His knock on the study door went unnoticed, so he slowly opened it up to see a red-faced Brenda waving her hands at Rusty, who stood with his arms crossed and a defiant look on his face.

"…federal and international agencies searching for these people, Rusty. We don't need you goin' out on the streets and riskin' your life for this case!"

"And how are those big time agencies doing, Brenda? Sharon was at work all day yesterday and again today, and they haven't made any arrests. Those assholes aren't doing anything at all!"

"It's not your concern! You don't work for Major Crimes!"

He shook his head at her. "That's exactly what Sharon would say."

Brenda's face got even redder. "Because she's right."

Fritz stepped between them, like a referee in a boxing match. "Hey hey, what the hell is going on? I can hear the two of you yelling all the way in the kitchen!"

"It's none of your business, Fritz," Rusty said.

Brenda put one hand on Fritz's shoulder as if to push him out of the way and pointed at Rusty with the other and said, deep and deadly, "Rusty Beck, you do not do not ever talk to Fritz that way, do you hear me? You show respect to the adults in your life!"

Rusty looked at the ground. "Sorry, Fritz," he mumbled. "Brenda is just pissing me off."

"Wait, I'm pissing _you_ off?" she said incredulously.

"Stop it, both of you!" he shouted. And when Fritz Howard raised his voice, people listened. Not only was it rare enough that people took notice, but he could be very loud. "Brenda, what is going on?"

She glared at Rusty. "Let me clarify first of all to Rusty that this is your business, because as FBI liaison, Sharon called you yesterday for guidance on how to initiate federal help. Fritz knows all about the Popova murders."

"Oh, gotcha," Rusty said. "I didn't know that."

"Well, you do now," Brenda said. She turned to Fritz.

"Rusty overheard me briefin' the squad yesterday with what I found out from the documents in the Popova home and what they had to do with the murders. He heard everythin' I told you."

"Okay." Fritz wondered where this was leading.

"So he decided to play amateur detective and go out and find the traffickers himself," Brenda said, through gritted teeth.

"Shit, Brenda, will you at least stop screaming at me long enough to tell you who I talked to and what I learned? And if you're going to rat me out to Fritz, at least get the story straight."

"'Rat you out?' Really? Aren't you askin' me to 'rat you out' to Sharon cuz you're too scared to face her?"

"That's not the same…"

"Shut up, both of you! And I mean it this time!" Fritz lowered his voice. "Brenda, do you want your father wondering what is going on in here? If you don't, sit down now and tell me you're fighting about." Fritz gestured for Rusty to sit in the desk chair, which he did. Brenda plopped down in a small recliner, and Fritz leaned against the door. "Rusty, you go first, since you came over here."

"So I can finally I talk now, thanks Fritz." He raised his eyebrow and Brenda. "So I heard what Brenda had to say about this girl Katerina, and how she got dragged over here to be a prostitute, and her dad came from Russia to find her and how his whole family murdered a couple of days ago. It bugged me, you know? It's bullshit." He paused, and for not the first time Fritz marveled at the caverns of sadness that must exist in the young man's heart.

"Anyways, right away I thought of Raisa, a friend of mine from when I lived on the streets. And I had a feeling she might know something."

Brenda opened her mouth to speak, but Fritz hushed her with his hand. "Go on. Who is Raisa, and why did you think she could help?"

Rusty ran his hands through his blonde mop. "I met Raisa a couple of years ago. She was in a back ally with a date, and I just happened to be walking by and I heard her yell. I ran to her and this asshole had a knife to her throat. He was a little guy and he didn't see me coming, so I tackled him, and once I got him down, Raisa twisted the knife out of his hand. Anyways, she tried to thank me afterwards with sex, but I wasn't about that, so she and I became friends. Raisa said I was different than most kids on the street. She said I had a soul."

"She said you were a kid," Fritz said. "Was she older?"

He nodded. "Twenty-five, I think. She was brought over from Russia by these jerks who wouldn't give her passport back to her until she worked off her debt as a pro. Once she was settled up, she kept turning tricks because she didn't know what else to do with herself. The Russian girls tend to be really young, so the other ones looked up to her like a big sister. And since she didn't owe anybody anything, she had a lot more freedom than most of the girls from other there."

"So you were friends, even though she were so much older?"

"Yea, we met for coffee and stuff." He laughed. "This sounds stupid, but sitting in a Starbucks with a girl actually made me feel kinda normal, even if she was 10 years older than me. She knew a lot of people, and a couple of times when I got hurt, she had me seen by Russian doctors that worked out of nicer places than the free clinic." He rubbed his face. "She told me she had a little brother she left behind in Russia, and I reminded her of him."

"So what, Rusty, you went and asked Raisa about this murder? How did you know how to find her? You haven't been out there well over a year."

"Fritz, there are some things you don't forget. And trust me, okay, the streets are better than Google Maps for finding people when you know where to look."

Brenda broke in, unable to restrain herself. "Fascinatin'. Besides puttin' yourself in incredible danger, since last time someone asked after Katerina three people ended up dead, I assume you found your friend and she told you somethin' you think might be important."

Rusty reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and carefully unfolded it. "I gave her all the details you told the team, Brenda. How Katerina was hand-picked from Moscow because she was pretty, and that girl the Popova's found called her a 'special one.' And she lives somewhere nice in LA, not some whorehouse. I also remembered parts of that really sad letter, and Katerina said a couple of times 'the big man who owns me.' And the second I said that part, the 'big man' part, Raisa knew exactly who this guy is. The pimp trafficker guy."

"Who?" Brenda and Fritz asked in unison.

Rusty looked down at his paper. "Raisa said his name is 'Bez Perevoda. ' I think it's a nickname."

"'Big Bear,'" Brenda said. 'Bez pervoda' is Russian for 'Big Bear.'"

"Raisa said he's huge, really tall and wide with dark hair and a beard. And she told me that he does the whole prostitution thing a little different. He doesn't keep his girls in brothels or lets them work the streets. They're all really good looking and gives them really nice clothes, so he charges a ton for them. He owns some condos in Brentwood, a few girls to a condo with a couple of guards, and their dates are arranged for them at hotels. Oh, and get this—the website advertising them, with their pictures and stuff, is on the Deep Web, and you can only pay for these girls using Bitcoins. I guess they got a computer nerd or two on their payroll."

"Wait, what?" Brenda said, shaking her head. "What the hell is the Deep Web and bitters?"

Fritz groaned. "The Deep Web, Brenda, are websites you can only get to using special software that keep you completely anonymous. This is important because most of these hidden sites are for illegal goods and services, such as drugs or hit men. It's the bane of the FBI's existence."

"You are kiddin' me," Brenda said.

"And Bitcoins—not bitters—is a new electronic form of currency. It's cool because it's completely untraceable," Rusty said.

"Well, not completely untraceable," Fritz corrected. "The FBI is working on that. The biggest site on the Deep Web was a drug site called The Silk Road. It took a couple of years, but the Bureau finally found the owner and arrested him a few months ago."

Brenda put her hand on her hip. "Now wait a minute," she said. "You mean to tell me that a prostitute has some high-level knowledge of the goings ons of these traffickers, not to mention the understandin' to know what things like the Deep Web is? I don't buy that for one minute."

Rusty look irritated. "Hey, Raisa was 19 when she decided to leave college and come to the US. She had finished two years by then, and she studied computers. I keep telling her she needs to go back to school, but whatever, it's her choice. As far as how clients book Bez Whatever's girls, it's not a big deal if people hear it's through the Deep Web. If you don't know what that is, then you aren't smart enough and you can't afford the software to get there in the first place. "

Fritz nodded. "It's genius, actually. Great self-selection. Only someone savvy and wealthy enough to have Bitcoins can afford to buy a night with these women."

Brenda looked at Fritz. "Is it possible that the Feds have no idea about this group because their transactions are untraceable?"

Fritz shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

Rusty said, "I asked Raisa if she knew where this asshole's condos are, and she gave me a street name in Brentwood. She didn't remember the address, but said there are two high-rises next to each other that are identical, and she thinks he owns places in both." With a smirk, he handed the paper over to Brenda.

"So let me get this straight," she said, turning her steely gaze back to him. "You know Sharon's gonna have a stroke she hears what you've done, so I get tell her? And why is that?"

"Well, she'll go apeshit at first, but by the time she has the chance to call me to chew me out, she will be a little more calm. And remember, I'm trying to give her a good Christmas, so calm is good." He smiled a wide, faux car salesman smile.

"Oh, a good Christmas, huh? This Bez Perevoda hears that your friend ratted him out and then learns who you are, you will end up like the Popova's, Rusty: throat slit from ear to ear and blood all over the floor. Would that be a good Christmas for Sharon then?"

"Brenda, that's enough!" Fritz snapped. She ignored him.

"Yea Brenda," Rusty sniped. "That's enough."

Fritz stood. "You are both giving me a headache, and I've had it. Brenda, drive down to the LAPD and give this info to Sharon. Make sure she shares this with the Trafficking Task Force. Now we have a possible moniker, one of the agencies in the HSTC may know something about this guy."

Brenda looked at him with a similar expression that Rusty wore. "Oh, _now _you want me to go help out Major Crimes? That's quite a change from the other day."

He shook his head. "Just go, will you, Brenda?" She drove him crazy sometimes.

Rusty moved to follow her, but Fritz grabbed him by his hoody. "Oh no, you aren't going anywhere."

"What are you talking about? Let me go."

"Rusty, Sharon is going to flip when she hears about this. It will make her a little less worried if she knew you were at our house tonight. Which is where you're staying until she picks you up. And don't even try to leave, or I'll cuff you. You have worried enough people for one day."

Fritz and Rusty followed Brenda into the main part of the house, and when Brenda opened the front door to leave, they found the pizza delivery boy, ready to ring the bell. Brenda scooted past him, Rusty grabbed the boxes and bags in the kid's arms, and Fritz was left to pay the bill. "Mozzarella sticks!" he heard both Rusty and Clay exclaim at the same time. _This is just great_, Fritz thought. _One more child to watch over tonight_.

* * *

One small consolation to the humiliating experience of having to sign in as a Guest at the main desk at the LAPD was this time, the desk sergeant recognized her. "Nice to see you again, Deputy Chief Johnson," said a young female police officer with a smile. "We sure do miss you around here." With a buoyed step, she made her way up to Major Crimes and headed to her old office.

She stopped short when she saw Sharon Raydor. The usually unflappable woman was a mess. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sloppy pony tail, no makeup was left on her puffy, sleep-deprived face, and her Navy suit was rumpled. There was even a coffee stain on her white blouse.

Brenda stood in the doorway for a full minute before Sharon blearily looked up at her. "Brenda," she said, her voice raspy. "Why are you here?"

"Sharon, you doin' okay? Any break on the case?" Brenda remembered the marathon investigations and how draining they were. Did she used to look that awful?

Sharon nodded and rubbed her face. "We re-interviewed all the neighbors, including ones in the apartments across the street. Turns out a couple of them described two men they saw leaving the Popova's apartment. Got a good look at them, too."

"Let me guess, one of them was a big man with a beard."

Suddenly, Sharon looked very awake, her green eyes bright emeralds behind her glasses. "Now how in the world did you know that?"

Brenda took off her pink raincoat and sat down in the chair opposite Sharon's desk. "I sure hope the safety is on your gun," said Brenda. "Because I don't want you accidentally shootin' the messenger."

Thirty minutes later and the redness in Sharon's cheeks still hadn't receded.

"So tell me again why he sent you to deliver this information," she asked Brenda for the third time, as she paced once more back and forth behind her desk.

Brenda sighed. "Sharon, what I have to say isn't goin' to change with repeated questionin'. He's scared of you. He figures you will be a little more calm once you have heard it from me, so you won't yell at him as much. His words, not mine."

"Oh, he will be surprised. He will be very, very surprised. I have an impressive supply of rage."

Sharon shook her head and pursed her lips. "This is all Ricky's fault."

Brenda was confused. "Ricky who?"

"Ricky, my son! If he came home like he was supposed to, if he didn't cancel his Christmas with us and disappoint Rusty, he never would have felt the need to play cop. If Ricky were home the two of them would be eating burgers and playing hoops instead of Rusty revisiting his old haunts."

Brenda had had just about enough. She was worried about Rusty's safety too, but he was at her house now, so it was time to focus on something else. "Sharon, let's move on for a second. Can we verify some of the information Raisa gave him? The physical description of' Bez Perevoda matches what witnesses saw the night of the murder. So the rest is worth checkin' out with the feds, don't you think?"

"Oh, uh, yes, it is." It was clear to Brenda that she was having a hard time pulling her mind away from Rusty. "I have an FBI agent here now, a member of the Trafficking Task Force. She was pulling together six packs for witnesses to look at." Sharon picked up her phone and murmured into it. "Agent Jenkins will join us in a minute."

While waiting, Sharon told Brenda everything they had found so far in terms of fingerprints (several unidentified), autopsy (nothing relevant), and human trafficking in LA (it's nothing new). They were discussing data from ICE when there was a short, precise knock on the door, and a petite African-American woman in her early 30's stepped in.

"Am I interrupting? You asked me to stop by," she said, in a clipped, efficient tone.

"I did. Agent Patrice Jenkins, please meet Brenda Johnson. Ms. Johnson use to run this Division before I did, and now she's the Chief of Investigations at the DA's office. She also was kind enough to do all the translating for us early in this case."

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Johnson. I'm from the San Diego Field office and part of the Trafficking Task Force." Niceties over, Agent Jenkins turned to Sharon. "Did you need me for something, Captain?"

"Yes. We got some very important information on a possible suspect, and he matches the physical description of one of the men seen leaving the Popova's home."

Agent Jenkins nodded. "Where did this information come from?" she asked.

Silence. Brenda knew the last thing Sharon wanted was for Rusty to be even remotely involved in this case, and she was very much in agreement with that. _Vagueness is a good tactic_, she thought.

"A contact of mine."

Jenkins eyebrows nearly reached her scalp. "Excuse me, Ms. Johnson, but your 'contact?' I thought you were involved in this investigation to provide language services only."

Brenda wanted to smack the woman. _I was risking my life for the CIA when you were still dreaming of wearing lipstick and a pushup bra, _she thought angrily. Out loud, she said, in her hard, "don't mess with me" tone, "Agent, perhaps later we can discuss my role in this investigation, which is determined by the LAPD, not the FBI, by the way. But for now, since there are killers on the loose, I would like to pass on what I know and see how much you can verify. Deal?"

The agent only nodded and Brenda told her about Bez Perevoda and his way of selling his "special ones" on the Deep Web.

"Do you know this nickname, or the use of the internet this way?" asked Sharon.

Jenkins shook her head. "The name, I need to look up. I can do that from her and let you know. As far as the Deep Web, yes, it's a haven for prostitution sites. That's sort of the point. But I haven't heard it for used for any other trafficking uses, like selling slaves. But I'm sure it's only a matter of time. If you can rent a hit man there, why not start selling trafficked women and children there too? Transactions are thought to be untraceable."

"I have a question, Agent. Does this sound like the work of a Kosolov?" Brenda messed with the powerful Russian family once and it rattled her so much she looked over her shoulder for months.

"The Kosolovs still do a lot of smuggling, since it appears that they always have someone from Customs on their payroll. But trafficking is beyond them. I think they would consider it beneath them."

Brenda nodded, relieved.

Agent Jenkins continued. "I'm going to excuse myself and look up this name in our international data bases. Pleases give me a few minutes." She gave Brenda a hard look and left the office.

"Oh, I don't think she likes me very much," Brenda said.

Sharon waved her hand lazily in the general direction of the squad room. "She's the least of my concerns. Thanks for thinking on your feet, though. I was, I _am_ too busy being angry at Rusty for it to have occurred to me that the federal agents to want to know how we got the information about the Russian traffickers. The very last thing I want is Rusty dragged into this. Damn him." She huffed out some air and crossed her arms.

Brenda put her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. "Listen, I'm here only to tell you what he learned, not to advocate for him. When he told me I started yellin' so loud Fritz had to come and referee. It wasn't pretty. But a part of me can understand why he was moved by Katerina's story, Sharon. He knows what that sort of life is like. It's no surprise it touched him."

"He's overheard the details of dozens of Major Crimes cases, many with kids, and none of them has made him run out and play detective," Sharon snapped.

Before Brenda could retort, Sharon put her hand over her mouth, as if to shove her words back in. "Brenda, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound harsh. I'm not taking this out on you. You have been amazing with this case. I'm just—"

"Upset. Yea, I get that." She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice.

"Oh, upset, and exhausted, and worried." Sharon came from around her desk leaned against the other side, opposite of where Brenda was sitting. She rubbed her eyes and lowered her voice as if divulging something she didn't want anyone to overhear. "I have to be honest with you, Brenda. I have no idea how you did this job for seven years. And you were so much more hands-on than I am. I delegate a lot to Provenza and I still think it's going to be the death of me. Seven years…" Sharon's hawk eyes grew unfocused and she stared at an unknown spot over Brenda's shoulder.

Brenda knew from being an interrogator that fatigue was an excellent weapon to use when you needed to lower someone's inhibitions, and she believed she was seeing the proof that that now.

Sharon always seemed indestructible to Brenda, and for her to openly admire Brenda for having strength that she didn't think she possessed…Brenda's head swam from so much honesty.

"Sharon, you're the toughest woman I know. You might not want to do this job as long as I did, but you could. I have no doubt."

The two women looked at each other, and Sharon nodded, a small smile on her tired face.

A knock at the door, then Agent Jenkins enters at Sharon's bidding. She was holding a manila folder with several pieces of paper. "I have good news," she said. "A moniker search for 'Bez Perevoda', AKA 'Big Bear' returned Ivan Zubov, age 52. Zubov was a known smuggler, but no one had seen him for about five years." She held up a grainy black and white photo of a large angry man with out of control long dark hair and full beard.

"Looks like Ivan graduated to traffickin.' Is that common?"

Agent Jenkins shook her head. "Not normally, no. Different skill sets and different type of women. You have unwilling victims versus those who want to be taken to the US by any means possible. They just look similar when smugglers hold their cargo's passports and demand they work off the rest of their debt though sex work."

Something clicked in Brenda's head. "Ru-I mean, my source told me that his source said she was forced to work as a prostitute once she got to the US for quite awhile to settle her smugglin' debt." She gave Sharon a look, hoping she caught the meaning of her words.

Comprehension dawned. "Yes, she did," Sharon said. "So I wonder if that woman was smuggled by Ivan Zubov. That would explain why, when the details of the case were given, she immediately knew it was him. And why she knew where the condos are. But if Zubov knows we're looking for him, he's going to have a good idea who talked. We have to find her and give her police protection," Sharon said.

"The Johnson Rule," Brenda said bitterly.

"Captain!" Agent Jenkins said loudly. "While the shorthand that you and Ms. Johnson use to speak to each other so I won't understand what is going on is quite charming, it is also ridiculous. If you got information from a former victim of Zubov's, even if it went through another channel, she needs protection. He had no problem slitting the throat a child. He's dangerous."

Sharon turned to her. "I stood over that child's body, Agent. You did not. You don't need to remind me of the tragedy. What we need to do here is divide tasks appropriately. I fully agree with you about police protection. That is a matter for the LAPD to handle, not the FBI." Agent Jenkins opened her mouth but Sharon kept talking. "What you can do is find out if Zubov owns property on Palm Street in Brentwood, and get a federal search warrant ASAP. Get me addresses first and I'll have SIS set up and monitor for signs of Zubov. I don't want LAPD or the FBI to raid one of his condos unless we are sure he's there. Does that sound like a plan?"

"Yes, it does. We need to collaborate on who does the raid, though. Trafficking is an international offense. This is much bigger than the LAPD."

"I'm not arresting him for trafficking, Agent, I'm arresting him for murder. We can decide who gets a piece of him when we get him in custody."

"We also have victims to rescue. And I want you to bring that informant/prostitute back here. We want to question her on Zubov and his collaborators."

"Oh my, yes," Sharon said in a breezy, non-committal way, which by now Brenda knew meant 'I'm going to do exactly what I want so go ahead and stamp your foot."

As soon as Agent Jenkins was gone, Sharon picked up her phone and called a number from her contacts. A loud female voice answered.

"May I speak to Rusty please. This is Sharon Raydor."

Brenda could hear Claire on the end all the way across the desk.

"You called my home phone? " She whispered to Sharon. " Why?"

Sharon put her hand over the receiver. "Do you really think Rusty is going to answer his cell if he sees I'm calling?" To Claire: "Yes, you can bring tofurkey to Christmas dinner. Actually, it's Rusty whose cooking. Speaking of…yes, every boy should learn how to cook…Claire, please listen to me. It's an emergency and I need to talk to Rusty Now, so please go get him."

"You just met my very unique sister-in-law, Sharon."

"Oh my god Brenda, how do you stand her…hi Rusty, no, there's no emergency. But I need you to listen to me. I will yell at you later for this stunt you pulled, make no mistake. But right now I need information, and I know you aren't going to want to give it to me. I'm telling you that I am not in the mood to stand here and argue with you for 30 minutes about it, do you understand? And I really don't think you want to be a witness in a another murder trial. Oh, what trial? If you are uncooperative, your friend Raisa's."

...

As much as she wanted to, Brenda had no reason to stay. The squad was running around getting SIS into place, feds were swarming in, uniforms were being briefed on Raisa's address and her possible unwillingness to accept protection, the phone was ringing off the hook…

And Brenda's blood was singing. She had missed this so much, the rush, the pulse of adrenaline that comes with the whirl of activity: it was her drug. And she was craving it so badly her body hurt from forcing herself out of the murder room . She felt like a newborn ripped off the breast right as the milk started flowing. Deprived, hungry, hanging.

It was only 10PM when she got home, and a game of Monopoly and one of chess was in full swing. Fritz hugged her, Rusty glared at her, Clay made an underhanded comment about how nice it was for her to bother to join them, and Claire said something off the wall. She pretty much ignored them all. She heated up a piece of pizza and went to bed, more depressed than she had felt in a long time.

* * *

It was pitch dark in the bedroom when her cell went off. Since she no longer slept with it on her nightstand, the persistent caller hit Redial a couple of times while she fumbled to find her purse, knocking out half the contents as she dug for it. "Yes!" she hissed into the phone when she finally found it.

"Brenda," Sharon Raydor said. "I know it's the middle of the night, but I just knew you would want to be here for this. I need you here for this."

"Be where for what?"

"Brenda, listen to me. We found her. She's here."

Brenda's thoughts were trapped in the cobwebs of sleep.

"Found who? Who was missin'?"

"Katerina, that's who," breathed Sharon. "I have Katerina Popova."

**END CHAPTER 8**

**Review begging begins here. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Chap 9**

**A/N: Changing POV.**

Sharon was grateful for the precious few hours of sleep she got in between hammering out SIS details of the raids on Ivan Zubov's properties in Brentwood and his arrest. She assumed it would take at least a couple of days for the grizzly bear of a man to be spotted, but apparently, even soulless human traffickers lay low for the holidays. And luckier still, the demand for his girls appeared to be slow, too, as every single one of the 13 young women found at the four condos said all had returned from their dates by 3AM, or hadn't gone out at all. It was the early hours of Christmas Eve when her phone rang and ended her brief waltz with sleep, letting her know her suspect was on his way in.

She felt vaguely guilty that she hadn't stopped by Brenda's house and picked up Rusty when she left the LAPD the night before, but since she was only home for a brief time and he wasn't safe alone, it was a wise choice. Besides, he was furious with her for forcing him to give up Raisa. He felt like he had betrayed her trust, and no amount of convincing could change his mind. _Some Christmas I've given him, _she thought, swallowing the slightly burned coffee Provenza had fetched for her. _He's sleeping on someone else's couch and we're both furious at each other. All the presents he's going to open tomorrow aren't going to make up for this_.

Sharon insisted that Sanchez and Sykes, the most tactically sophisticated officers she had, accompany the FBI when they raided the condos, so they could arrest Zubov for three counts of first degree murder. The detectives got a good look at the girls who lived with Zubov, along with the other ones the FBI found in the other residences. Sykes said the second she saw Katerina Popova, she knew who she was, even though the only photo she had seen of her was several years old. The young woman, who remained remarkably calm in the middle of chaos, spoke some English and could confirm her ID. It wasn't the focus of the investigation, but there she was: they found the girl who was at the center of it all.

Sharon explained what she wanted, and surprisingly, Agent Jenkins was more than accommodating. She pulled Katerina away from the other girls and brought her to an interview room, and Sharon arranged for a female cop to sit with her. As the officer headed into the room, Sharon pulled her aside. "Please tell her she's not in trouble, and give here these." Sharon handed the other woman a stack of cutout cookies on a napkin. If the officer found this strange, she said nothing. She just accepted them and, in a voice too soft to be caught by recording devices, said something to Katerina before setting them down in front of her. Katerina just stared at them. Sharon knew the cookies were silly, but she wanted some little gesture to let Katerina know she wasn't in hostile territory. Cookies the shape of evergreen trees with sprinkles were the only thing she could think of in a pinch.

Sharon didn't have to think twice about calling Brenda in. There was someone else's delicate ego at stake besides her own, so the petty insecurities that had plagued her the past few days paled in comparison. Also, Brenda had spent a great deal of time crawling around the lives of the Popova's, translating the evidence and patching together their sad story from another language. The least Sharon could do is give her some resolution, a little closure, for all her hard work.

Sharon was about to ask Tao if he could make coffee better than Provenza when Brenda blustered into the squad room. Sharon was always amazed how a tiny woman like her could make such a grand entrance. Brenda's blonde curly hair was flowing, Medusa-like, behind her, she was wasn't wearing any makeup except for hot pink lipstick that matched her sweater, and her large purse bumped Sharon in the hip. It was the intense energy that swirled around her like a tornado, though, that drew everyone's attention toward her, like a shiny object that is impossible not to stare at.

"Look what the cat dragged in," said Andy Flynn in a stage whisper, and Sharon shot him a dirty look. She knew that she herself had been less than welcoming to Brenda these past couple of days, but Andy had been downright rude. Whatever problem he had with her, Sharon wished he would either grow up or get over it, or both.

Brenda seemed to ignore Flynn's comment and went straight for the monitor. "That her?" she said.

"Yes ma'am," said Tao. "We asked her name a few times."

"She speaks some English?"

"Oh yes. And we finally have an interpreter at our disposal, not that you weren't the best."

Brenda raised an eyebrow at Sharon.

"When Assistant Chief Taylor was notified about the federal nature of this case, and that it was much more than a triple homicide of three poor Russians, suddenly that interpreter who was working with Narcotics and just couldn't be disturbed was at our disposal. He got some basic information from each of the young women we found at Ivan Zubev's properties, but now he's with the Big Bear and his comrades himself , trying to get some answers. But the only word Zubev seems to know is English is 'lawyer,' which he repeats over and over again. Provenza is sitting with him."

"Oh, I can assure you, Sharon, that Ivan Zubev speaks flawless English. He wouldn't be able to move around LA, or the country for that matter, if he didn't."

Her attention turned back to the monitor. "So if you have an interpreter, Sharon, why exactly am I here?"

"I thought that since you were the one who figured most everything out, then…" Sharon started.

"…"I'd want to be the one to tell this girl that her family was ten miles away from her for the past year but they just got butchered by her pimp?"

"Well, Brenda, when you put it like that…"

"This is bullshit!" Andy Flynn exploded, his voice full of his own brand of righteous indignation.

Sharon fought to stay calm. "And what, may I ask, is bullshit now, Andy?"

"I can't believe you're gonna go in there and tell this girl her entire family is dead because they went looking for her. That's crap, Sharon. She doesn't need to know that. The feds are gonna get all these girls to a nice rehab center, make sure they get some therapy and job training and all that, so maybe they can have a decent life after this. She could leave here and never have to know what happened. But instead you're gonna dump this crap on her on top of everything else she's been through? There's no point!"

That had occurred to Sharon, who, despite her dedication to the truth, had learned throughout her years as a police officer that sometimes, ignorance can be bliss.

"Thing is, Andy, y'all are duty-bound to tell her," Brenda said softly.

"Oh yea, why is that?" Flynn said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Because she's the next of kin."

* * *

Before she went into any situation, whether it was to interview a suspect, question a witness, or give a death notification, Brenda always prepared herself. Who did she want to be to this particular person, in this situation, today, this moment? Serous officer, kick-ass cop, ditzy blonde, sexy woman, professional Deputy Chief? Once the decision was made, she fussed with her hair, perhaps hiked up a hem or unbuttoned a button, schooled her features, and melded her personality into the role. She was fluid like this, quicksilver, able to be transformed in a moment's notice. It was a gift.

Tonight, she chose just to be Brenda. _Whoever the_ _hell that is_, she thought.

When Brenda and Sharon entered the room, Katerina jumped a little bit, a clear sign of a person who was always on edge. Brenda smiled and thanked the officer in the room, and then sat across from Katerina. She noticed a plate of pathetic cutout cookies in front of the girl and wondered who thought that was a good idea.

Brenda saw immediately why Katerina was a "special one." She was as beautiful a woman as Vika was a cute little girl, with shoulder length blonde hair and blue eyes a few shades darker than glacial ice. She was very pale and had fragile features, but the set of her jaw told Brenda was wasn't as breakable as she seemed. The heavy makeup she wore was unnecessary, and that, along with the short skirt and tight silk blouse she wore made Brenda guess that Katerina was one of the few girls that had a date that night. Although she looked just 19, she had an air of age about her, and if Brenda had been a spiritual person, she might had been tempted to say that Katerina had an old soul.

"Katerina, I'm Brenda, and this is Sharon," she said in English. "Do you understand?"

Katerina nodded. "I tell the others, I speak some English."

Brenda looked at Sharon to continue. As agreed upon, Sharon would handle the interview until the point when it would need to lapse into Russian.

"Katerina, I know you have been told this already, but I want to make it very clear that you, and your friends, are not in any trouble. Do you understand that?" Sharon said.

Katerina shrugged.

Sharon continued. "We've arrested the man you know as Bez Perevoda, whose real name is Ivan Zubov. He is going to jail for a very long time."

"You take him because we are prostitutes? So we are arrested too?" She said in heavily accented English.

Sharon shook her head. "No, you aren't arrested for being a prostitute, not at all. Zubov was arrested for what he did to you and the other girls. For taking you from Russia and forcing you to do things you didn't want to do."

Katerina's eyes opened wide. "He is in trouble for this? For bringing us here?"

"Yes," Sharon said soothingly. "He did horrible things to you, and so did a lot of other men, both in Russia and in the United States. Our government is going to find these men and punish them."

"So…he no longer owns me?" Her face barely reflected the turmoil Brenda was sure she must be feeling.

"No, Katerina. He no longer owns you. You are free to start a new life, and there are people who will help you with that. No more prostitution. That's over."

"Over," she echoed. She rubbed her head. "It's...too much." After a couple of slow breaths, she said, "so I go home to Russia? To my family?"

Sharon and Brenda exchanged looks. It was Brenda's s turn. She reached below her to where her bag was on the ground and pulled out the letter Katerina had sent to her father two years prior. She placed it in front of Katerina, who just stared at it, as if she had never seen it before.

Finally, she spoke. "Did Bez Perevoda have this?" She asked.

Switching to Russian, Brenda said, "No, it wasn't intercepted, if that's what you're asking." Katerina looked at her, surprised to hear her native tongue. "We have some complicated things to discuss, and I thought it might be easier if we did it in Russian."

She was back staring at the letter. "How did you get this, then. Tell me please."

Brenda took a slow breath to steady herself. "Your father had it, Katerina. The letter made it to Isuprovo." She noticed the girl was stroking the envelope. "It's okay, you can open it if want."

Katerina did, skimming over the pages. When she was done, she said, "I don't understand. How do you have this letter?"

"This is all going to sound strange, but I promise you it's true. Your father came to LA, along with Elena and Vika. He tried to find you."

She scoffed. "You are telling me stories."

Brenda shook her head. "I know you are used to being lied to, and so I don't blame you for not trusting me. But you hold the proof in your hand." She gestured to the letter. "How could I, an American woman, get ahold of a letter that was sent to Russia two years ago? Look at the postmarks. How could that happen, unless your father was in LA?"

Katerina stared at Brenda, her eyes icing over. "Tell me, please."

"Your father spent a year in LA looking for you. He and Elena worked in a local Russian restaurant called Little Russia. Your sister was enrolled in school here."

"Little Russia. Sometimes the men take us to eat there."

_Don't tell me Katerina was at the same restaurant her parents worked at and they didn't see each other. And people wonder why I don't believe in a god._

"Both he and Elena questioned every Russian prostitute they could find about you," Brenda continued. "They spent every evening they could walking around and trying to find someone that knew you."

"I don't walk streets. I'm not cheap." She seem offended.

"They didn't know that, Katerina. That was the only way they had to find you." Now for the hard part. "Unfortunately, it got back to Bez Perevoda that people were asking after you."

"Oh no," she whimpered. "No no no."

_I just have to get his over with. Like a band aid, was always my philosophy._ "It seems that he found out where your family lived, and I'm so sorry to tell you this, but he murdered them three nights ago. I'm so sorry, Katerina."

"Dead?" she whispered. "Not Vika too, no? Not Vika. She's just a little girl." She wrapped her arms around her torso, as if to keep herself from flying apart.

"Vika too."

It was a testament to the depth of Katerina's suffering that she didn't collapse, or wail, or even sob at the news her family was murdered. She had been deprived of emotions along with her youth and dignity for so long, and she had learned to live without. Her only signs of distress was a gentle rocking and several crystal clear tears that poured slowly out of her eyes like melting icicles.

Brenda looked over at Sharon, and she could tell, despite the muted reaction, that she knew the news had been delivered. They sat with Katerina for several minutes without speaking, letting the young woman be alone in her grief.

Finally, Katerina said softly, in English, "how did they die? My family?"

"Their throats were cut," Sharon said. "With a knife. I don't think they suffered for very long."

Brenda couldn't tell if the young woman understood and was just on the verge of translating when Katerina said, with a tinge of anger in her voice, "all the mean things Bez Perevoda did to me, none this mean. I wish he cut my throat too."

...

An hour later, Brenda made her way out of the Interview room and down the hall to the Women's restroom, where she fell to the floor an violently threw up.

Sagging against the elevator, Brenda stood there for five minutes before she realized she hadn't hit the button. "Shit. Shit shit shit." She punched it a dozen times to make up for her lapse. She just wanted to go home.

...

"Didn't think you ever used unladylike language," a voice came from behind her. She turned and found Andy Flynn, characteristic toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

"Yea well, desperate times." She impatiently hit the down button again.

Andy leaned against the wall and watched her. "You seem awful eager to leave here. Again."

She closed her exhausted eyes and willed herself patience. "I thought you couldn't wait for me to get out of here, Lieutenant. And here I am, leavin.'"

Flynn made a show of looking around. "Where's your lapdog Gabriel? I didn't think you went anywhere without him in case you needed to be carried over a puddle or something. Oh wait, you carry him over puddles. I always got that mixed up."

Her eyes snapped open, hot rage licking her insides. "Okay, that's it." She threw her purse to the ground and spun around. "You got somethin' to say to me Andy, somthin' that's been stuck in your craw for a year and a half, it's high time you get to it."

Flynn stood up from the wall and took the toothpaste from his mouth. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Chief Johnson."

"Cut the crap, Flynn. You've been a jerk to me for three days, and now you're goin' on about David. And I'm here, by the way, cuz I was asked to come and help out Major Crimes. On my own free time, free of charge. So I ask again, why do you have a bug up your you-know what?"

"Oh!" he said. "You're here now, translating for us, huh? Is that what you're doing? Because I saw the LAPD's official Russian translator around here earlier. Yea, I heard Taylor gave him to us from Narcotics. So that makes you a little redundant."

Brenda was so taken aback she just stared at Flynn, cheeks burning.

"The way I see it, Chief, is that things are a little boring for you over there at the DA's office. You and Gabriel got your nice and cushy offices, but you miss the excitement. You miss being in charge. So you get asked come over here and help out, which is great, but like a bad houseguest, you don't quite know when to go home."

"Well, Andy, you have takin' resentment up to a whole new level. I got called in the middle of the night by Captain Raydor to come down here and talk to that poor girl. It's not like I just stopped by. And it's not like I owe you an explanation." The elevator opened and Brenda was tempted to get on it and leave Major Crimes far behind. But this conflict with Andy Flynn felt like unfinished business, a festering wound, and it bothered her more than she liked to admit. She let the elevator close and turned around.

"This is your chance, Lieutenant, to get it all off of your chest. Just let me have it. Tell me everything I did to make you so damn mad."

"Oh, I already said everything I had to say to you and to Gabriel. But you didn't hear a damn word of it. You just took your boy and walked outta here. Gave him a real nice promotion for almost destroying our squad. Yea, he really paid for what he did to the rest of us."

"And tell me Andy, what exactly did he do to y'all?"

He rolled his eyes and huffed. "You forget quickly, don't you. He was the leak, remember? He ran home and told his girlfriend every little thing about us, about you. About how you let Turell Baylor die and we all stood around. And because of that we were all dragged through a year of sheer hell."

"No Andy. He didn't go home and tell his girlfriend. He went home and talked to a lawyer Goldman hired to infiltrate his life. How the hell was he supposed to know the woman he loved was a spy? Who goes around suspectin' that about people they date? How can you blame him for that?"

"He shouldn't have been talking about that shit at all!" Andy roared. A couple of people walking by moved away quickly. "That was squad business. Not gossip. And he had a problem with something you did, she should have talked to you."

"Well, you have me on that last point," she said. "But it's clear you haven't been married in a long time. Couples tell each other things. I know for right or wrong, I told Fritz about most of the cases I was workin' on."

"Fritz is an FBI agent. He often ended up helping out on cases."

"And Anne was a lawyer. He liked to get her perspective on things." She held her hand out to him. "Look Andy, I'm not sayin' you don't have a point that he might have talked out of school a bit too much about the goin's ons around here. I am sayin' that how in the world was he supposed to have guessed she was spyin' on him, and good lord, don't you think he paid enough for that choice? The woman joined his church to get close to him, for god's sake. She violated his life."

"Yea, I'll admit that sucked, and I was ready to forgive him. But you turned around and took him with you to the DA's office? You gave him this great cushy job as a punishment? That's such bullshit! And that is what really burns my ass, Chief. Oh sorry, _Brenda_."

"Call me whatever you like, but let's talk about second chances, shall we? Cuz that's what I gave David, a second chance, and you just can't stand that. I remember a case a long time ago, back when your main goal in life was to make me miserable, with a guy named Bill Croelik. When his supposed victim Lisa Barnes showed up dead in our morgue, everyone thought you must have fabricated evidence to put him on death row and get yourself a nice promotion. This ringin' any bells?"

"Yea, so?"

She looked at him incredulously. "So? Talk about short memories. Taylor was all set to hang you out to dry. And I had no reason to do anythin' decent for you, with you gettin' details of my sexual misconduct case from Atlanta published in the LA papers and all, but I put aside my feelin's and solved that case. You got cleared, you saved your career, and you asked for a transfer. To my division."

"Yea, I know the story."

"I was so close to tearin' up your transfer request, you have no idea. But I decided to give you—oh, what do you call it? Oh yea, a _second chance_."

"And I worked hard for you, for Major Crimes. I'm damn good at what I do."

"Oh you were. With some bumps in the road. Like you findin' a dead woman in Provenza's garage and not reportin' it. Gettin' out of hand during the Roy Wilkerson case. I dealt with you plenty of times and covered your ass, Andy, and you know it. And as grateful as I am for stickin' with me through those lawsuits that last year, I do not deserve your distain now."

He was silent for a moment. Then, "Okay, just answer me this. How can you have Gabriel working with you, as a constant reminder of how bad things got because of him? The lawsuit was based on a conversation in the squad car wham Baylor was dropped off at home. If Gabriel hadn't trotted back home and told that to Anne, things could be very different now. You have to look at him every day and think about what could have been."

Brenda shook her head, too tired to keep fighting with this pigheaded man over a time in her life she was desperately trying to heal from. "Andy, don't you see? Can't you understand why I need to keep working with Gabriel?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because he is my penance!"

Flynn shook his head. "I don't get it."

You don't get it because you haven't seen him since he left here. That whole thing with Anne has made him more cynical than you and Provenza combined, if you can believe that. He's got women in the DA's office throwin' themselves all over him, and he doesn't even notice. His work is great, but he's not the same. And I look at him and remember how he used to be, and I think, I did that. I did that to him." Brenda lifted her purse over her shoulder and hit the Down button again, bile rising in her throat again.

"So you can just keep hatin' my guts, Lieutenant. I'll just heap your friendship on top to all the other things that got taken away from me that year. " The elevator door opened, and Brenda stepped on, not bothering to look back.

* * *

She welcomed Fritz's embrace. His skin was sleep-warm and smelled like their bedroom, a combination of his cologne and her lotion. She breathed deeply as he hugged her.

"I'm so tired," she mumbled into his shoulder. "So tired."

"I got you," he said, releasing her and kissing her forehead. "It's going to be okay."

She stroked his cheek and looked around, gently pulling away and taking off her coat. "Anyone else up yet?"

"Uh, yea, the guy who's sleeping on the couch is," came Rusty's cranky voice. He walked over to Brenda, his hair tousled, wearing one of Fritz's FBI tee-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, and crossed his arms.

"Do you want to tell me what happened to my friend Raisa, who Sharon forced me to narc on?"

"Rusty, I'm too tired to fight with you, so let me just say this," Brenda said, leaning against the wall so she wouldn't collapse. "You didn't narc on Raisa. She needed police protection, because what she failed to tell you was the man whose name she gave you was the same monster who had smuggled her from Russia and then held her passport until she paid off some imaginary debt with sex work. If he heard the cops were askin' about him by name, I bet she would be one of the first people he would blame."

Rusty thought about that for a moment. "Oh," he said finally.

"'Oh' is right. And Raisa knew she was in danger, cuz by the time the cops got to her apartment, she had packed up and left."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Her roommate said she came home from meetin' someone the other day, I'm guessin' that was you, Rusty, in the best mood of her life. She packed some stuff, gave her roommate a couple of month's rent, and said she was movin' somewhere where there was snow. And she took off. The cops asked around and no one has seen her."

"Why would she do that?"

Brenda looked at him like he was crazy, "Did you not just hear me? This was the guy who basically ruined her life. Raisa was given the chance to get her revenge, and she took it. But she also knew, like we did, that if he got wind she talked, she might be the next person with their throat slit."

"But what I don't get," Fritz said, "is if she wanted to turn this guy in and skip town, why she didn't just tell the cops a long time ago about the trafficking and prostitution. Why now?"

"I know why," Rusty said. "When I told her what he did, that he killed a little girl too, she got really upset. She knew this Bear guy was an asshole and he had threatened to kill her plenty of times, but she never thought he could kill a little kid. That's why she told me everything. I guess he went too far."

"Well, whatever the reason, based on her information, Major Crimes was able to arrest the guy last night. Much quicker than they thought, so Rusty, it's your lucky day. Sharon said you can go home. She doesn't feel like you're in any danger."

"Good," he said. "Your couch is lumpy and I got no sleep, and I have to start cooking. I got eight people coming for Christmas dinner tomorrow night, and I gotta get a move on."

"Nine," Brenda corrected him. When he opened his mouth, she held out her hand. "Sharon will explain. She should be home in about an hour."

...

Fritz woke up Clay and Claire for an early breakfast while Brenda scrambled the eggs. "Let me do that, honey," he said, taking the spatula away from her when he came into the kitchen, followed by their houseguests. "You're dead on your feet. Go make the coffee instead."

"Why doesn't anyone think I'm capable of makin' eggs in my own house?" she said irritably before shuffling over to the coffee maker.

"What's with the early rising?" Clay asked.

"I should have let you sleep, Clay, " Fritz said. "It's Claire I need. She and I are going shopping."

"We are?" Claire chirped. "On Christmas Eve? Oh Fritz, the malls will be packed."

"It can't be helped. Someone needs Christmas presents."

Fritz put a big platter of scrambled eggs on the table as Claire brought out toast and her tofu scramble. Brenda poured coffee and passed out plates and utensils as everyone settled in.

"We're gettin' another guest today," she announced, once everyone had started to eat. "She will need some clothes and such, so Claire and Fritz are gonna go shoppin'. I made list if what I want y'all to get, and the stores I want you to shop at." She leaned over and pulled out a piece of paper from her purse. "Her size, well, I'm guessin' this is her size, is on the top. I'd go with you but I need to take a nap, and then I have to fetch her downtown. She's busy wrappin' a few things up for the next couple of hours." She looked across the table to Fritz, who nodded his support.

"Who is this?" Clay asked. "Another stray?"

"Yes she is actually. Her name is Katerina and she's from Russia."

"The more the merrier is our motto," Fritz said. "At least it is this Christmas. Space is going to be tight, and Claire, this is going to mean either a sleeping bag or the couch for you, but I think once you hear Katerina's story you won't mind too much." Brenda had called him from the LAPD and told him what she was planning. As usual, he was incredibly supportive.

"What story?" Clay said. "More drugs?"

"No Daddy, Katerina never did anything like that." And she proceeded to tell Katerina's story.

Claire had tears in her eyes when Brenda was done. "Of course, sister, she can have the air mattress. I'll put clean sheets on before Fritz and I go out shopping for her. It's the least I can do."

"I appreciate that, I really do. And I'll be dependin' on you with the shoppin' part. Besides clothes, she's gonna need underwear and a nightgown too. Whatever she had at that Brentwood condo was probably hookerwear, and the Feds have all that stuff as evidence anyways. She's got nothin'. It's gonna cost a bit, but I told Fritz he's authorized to take back a present or two of mine to finance it. He always spoils me too much." Fritz took his hand in hers, warm and comforting.

"Brenda," her father said, looking stern, "you mean to tell me you are gonna bring a prostitute into your home for Christmas? I appreciate that she had quite a shock and all, but she's likely to rob you blind. And what, you're showing up at Sharon's house tomorrow night with her, expose that nice kid Rusty to a hooker? Really Brenda, what are you thinking? A prostitute!" He spit out the last word from his mouth like it burned.

The stress of the last few days pressed on her in one direction, and her father's bullying on the other. She slammed down her free hand on the table, open-palmed, making everyone jump.

"You hypocrite," she hissed, "Yesterday you were lecturin' us all about how we need to go to church on Christmas, and then you say crap like this? Tell me Daddy, is denyin' a traumatized young girl a home on Christmas a Christian thing to do? Is withholdin' compassion to a child who was raped into submission and sold over and over the way Jesus wants you to live your life? This is a chance to show someone that there is some kindness in the world. That there are good people, and life can be worth livin'." Brenda stood up, her blood rushing through her so fast fueled by anger she thought for a second she feared she might pass out. "If you can't treat her with respect, Daddy, if you don't knock yourself out doin' everythin' you can to be that good Christian you just love to pretend to be, well, I am more than happy to drop you off at the airport on the way to pickin' Katerina up at the LAPD in a few hours."

Clay opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

Brenda put both fists on the table and leaned toward her father. "And not that it's any of your business, Daddy, but that 'nice kid Rusty' was abandoned by his Mama when he was 11 years old, and then got the snot beaten out of him in foster homes. When he was 15 he started livin' on the streets, turnin' tricks to stay alive. Now, what's that old sayin'? Oh yea, 'judge not lest ye be judged.'" With that, she pushed her chair back and stormed to her bedroom.

Once there, the tears started, hot and heavy, and she trembled as the rage slowly drained out of her.

_I ripped a young girl's world apart and then I got in two major fights, all within a few hours, _she thought_, _a sob catching in her throat._ If I went to church tomorrow I'd probably get into a brawl with the baby Jesus. _

With that thought, she stripped off her clothes and collapsed into bed, falling into a tar-thick, dreamless sleep.

**END CHAPTER 9**

**Review, please? **

16


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's notes:** This last chapter was going to be so long I broke it in half, so there will be 11 chapters in total. I was very happy to find out when doing some research for this chapter that in the Russian Orthodox church, Christmas is celebrated Jan. 7. In that case, this story is right on time!

POV...follow the bouncing ball.

**Chapter 10**

Fritz leaned his head against the doorframe and silently asked his Higher Power for patience. _Please give me the strength not to kill her_.

Out loud, he said, "Claire, are you ready to go? We have a ton of shopping to do, and like you said, the malls are going to be packed. I wanted to be out the door an hour ago."

His manic sister threw open the door to his study, which she had been using as a guest room. "Sorry Fritzy!" she said, slightly out of breath. "I wanted to clean up and get things ready before Katerina got here. I spread my junk all over and I had to pack. Messy me! I'm just going to throw my stuff in the car to get it out of the way." She brushed past him, rolling a large suitcase.

His anger melted. Claire really did have a good heart. It was just hard to see it nestled behind all the loud noise and flashing lights of her personality. "I'm sorry you're losing your room, Claire. Thanks for being such a good sport."

"I could always stay in the stables! Ha!" She laughed hysterically at her own joke.

Fritz took her suitcase from her and rolled it into the living room. "This can go in the front closet. You need access to your things." After moving a few coats aside, he got her luggage squared away. "Okay, now can we leave?"

She hesitated. "Fritz, do you think Brenda's okay? She was so upset at breakfast. I've never heard her yell like that. Did you talk to her?"

Fritz shook his head. "She was asleep by the time I got back to the bedroom. I set the alarm so she won't oversleep, because she needs to pick Katerina up some time this afternoon. She's tough, Claire, she really is. She'll be fine." _At least I hope she will_.

Fritz had sat, dumbstruck, an hour earlier, while Brenda unloaded on her father for objecting to a prostitute spending time with them on Christmas. Inside, though, Fritz was on his feet cheering as loud as if he were watching a triple play at a Dodger's game. Not only was Clay a complete ass to object to who Brenda brought into her own house, but his insensitivity was appalling. What really had him on his feet chanting Brenda's name at the top of lungs in his mind's eye was that she had finally stood up to her father's bullying. Fritz just hoped that she didn't negate the power of what she had done by apologizing for it later. As far as he was concerned, he had nothing to be sorry for.

"How about Clay? Where is he? That man needs his chakras balanced more than anyone else I've ever met." Claire shook her head slowly, apparently deeply troubled by the state of the older man's energy centers.

"I think he and his chakras are pouting in the guest room, and who knows when the next sighting will be." After Brenda had stormed off, Clay had risen from the table, trembling slightly, and walked away without saying a word. Claire asked Fritz if she should go after him, and he almost laughed. _Not unless you want your head ripped off_. Instead, Fritz took Claire's tendency to fix other people's problems and refocused it on preparing for Katerina's arrival, which included a massive shopping trip for presents.

"Alright, I'll leave him alone. I guess the two of them need to work it out." Claire leaned against the wall and massaged her temple. "All this negative energy, though, is giving me a headache."

Fritz had something he needed to discuss with her, and the quiet house was a better venue than in a crowded mall, where the desperate shopping would most likely amp up Claire's internal wattage. He put his hand on her shoulder to brace her for more incoming "negative energy."

"Claire, before we leave, I need to talk to you about something, and please don't take offense."

"You know, I hate when people start conversations with me like that."

"Just listen to me, okay?" She nodded.

"When Brenda was talking about Katerina, she didn't go into a lot of the details of what she's been through, besides the fact that she was smuggled unwillingly into the US and forced to work as a prostitute. Her story is much, much more horrible than that. When girls are trafficked, they are raped by their captors as a way to control them and to break their spirit. Katerina was in a brothel in Albania, and in those places the girls are made to have sex with dozens of men a night. It's sickening. She said that the man who 'owned' her used to hold a gun to her head and threaten to kill her if she misbehaved."

Claire was in obvious distress. "Fritz, why are you telling me this? I think I'm going to be sick."

"I'm sorry, this must be revolting for a woman to hear. The point I'm trying to make is that she is a very traumatized person, and we all have to be aware of that. I imagine she doesn't trust men at all, and will probably be very wary of Clay and me, so you or Brenda should be in the room with us at all times. Brenda really needs you to help out with her."

"You know I'll do anything," she chirped. Claire loved to feel needed.

_Here comes the hard part._ "I know you will, Claire. What I'm asking is that you be very, very aware of how you interact with her. No declarations about what you see psychically or how unbalanced her chakras are. Brenda said she speaks some English, but this type of talk is still going to confuse her."

"Uh huh," Claire said. "Go on."

"And absolutely no touching. No one has respected this young women's boundaries in a long time, so she is not going to appreciate one of your massive hugs. Girls who have been sexually abused often have a hard time distinguishing between sexual and nonsexual physical cues. Hugs, even from another woman, are going to confuse her."

"No hugs. Check."

"And you just need to calm down. No loud talking, no rapid speech, no squealing, no yelling. Interact with Katerina, and us when she's in earshot, as calmly and quietly as you possibly can."

"In other words, Fritz, to quote Clay, you want me to 'tone it down.'" Claire frowned.

"I'm not trying to insult you, but right now, this girl's comfort in my home and her mental health trump your feelings. Yes, Claire, tone it down. " He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

"Thanks for understanding."

Claire nodded, and Fritz thought she looked more hurt than angry. "Yes, well, now you have given me my tough love for the day, we should get going. Do you have Brenda's list?"

Glad to be moving on, he pulled the paper out of his pocket. "Right here. Brenda was very specific with items, number of each, suggested color, and, unless we don't have any luck, she wants things bought at Ann Taylor, Talbots, or Saks."

"Whoa, sister has expensive taste! Are you really going to take back one of her Christmas presents to pay for this?"

Fritz shook his head. "Absolutely not. I use my inheritance for things like this. Brenda considers it 'my money' and won't let me use it for anything like house repairs or a new car. She insists that comes from our salary. Or mainly her salary, because he makes more than I do. I'll just let her think I took a present back to finance this, and she'll never be the wiser."

"Keep your money, son, this shopping trip is on me." Fritz turned and saw Clay standing in the entranceway to the living room.

"Hi Mr. Johnson!" Claire said, fully recovered from her brush with melancholy. "Are you feeling okay?"

"No, he said, and walked over to them. Fritz noticed his eyes were red and puffy, and he moved as slowly as he had after Brenda's barrage that morning, although he was no longer trembling. "But I'll be just fine, never you mind. We've got bigger fish to fry." He looked at Fritz. "Is Brenda doing okay?"

Fritz nodded, dipping his toe in the pool of Clay's mood to test the temperature. "She's asleep right now, and we were just leaving to go on a buyfest for Katerina."

"I'm coming with you two, hope you don't mind." He reached past them into the closet Fritz just stuffed Claire's suitcase into and grabbed his jacket. "I want to pay for what Brenda put on the list."

"Clay, you don't have to-" he started.

"No, I don't have to do anything, especially if I want to keep acting like a horse's ass, like I did at breakfast," he said, eyes downcast. "Financing this trip is a way of saying to Brenda that I'm really sorry for my behavior, and I want to help make Katerina's Christmas as nice as it can be. So please, let me be the one to pay for all of this. It would really make me feel like I was making up something small to Brenda."

Fritz was touched. "Before you commit, Clay, you should see the list."

Clay dug in his pocket for his glasses. "You'll be surprised, I'm pretty good at shopping for women's things. I used to give clothes to Willie Rae as presents." He squinted at Brenda's handwriting. "Let's see what it says here, she wants clothes at Talbots, Ann Taylor…yup, she's her mother's daughter all right. We need two pair jeans, two pair pants, black and tan, one skirt, black or other, two tops, two sweaters,…oh, this isn't going to be a problem, Brenda was real specific." Clay looked at Fritz. "If you haven't learned how to buy clothes for Brenda by now, son, today you will learn from the master. What you want to do is to walk into a woman's clothing store and immediately go right up to a saleswoman. Do not touch even a single rack or your brain will be clouded by confusion. Tell the saleslady what you want, and she will be so charmed that you are shopping for your wife that she will help you pick out everything. You just need to yea or nay what she pulls out for you in the correct size. Piece of cake."

"Seriously, Mr. Johnson, you're going shopping with us?" Claire asked. For a second Fritz thought Clay might take that the wrong way, but he stopped worrying when Claire broke out in a big smile, raised her arms, bounced on the balls of her feet, and squealed, "this is gonna be fun, fun, FUN!"

* * *

The unlikely trio returned to the house six hours later, and Fritz couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so beat. His feet hurt, he had a cramp in his hand and a muscle spasm in his shoulder from carrying around shopping bags, and repetitive Christmas music left a ringing in his ears. Claire and Clay managed to carry in the bags of presents from the car by themselves, and somehow Fritz juggled four bags of groceries without dropping anything.

He brought the food into the kitchen and saw Brenda making cookies with a young blonde woman. They stopped what they were doing when they saw him, and Brenda introduced him in English. Clay and Claire popped into the kitchen a moment later, and there was a flurry of gentle hellos and welcomes, with a few heavily accented "thank you's" coming from their guest. Katerina was a few inches taller than Brenda and slender with striking blue eyes. She wore one of Brenda's pink sweaters and a floral skirt, both of which were a little too small for her, and her hair was pulled back from her pale, makeup-free face. If he had passed her on the street, Fritz would have thought she was another pretty California girl who grew up with endless summers and beach parties, a true "All American girl" who knew no worse hardships than a broken prom date. Nothing of her horrible past was readily apparent, save for a sharpness in her gaze. Fritz had met enough crime victims in his career, though, to have a sense that her physical size belied a deep emotional strength and a strong will. This young woman was a survivor.

Introductions done, Fritz asked Brenda if he could speak to her for a moment. She hesitated, looking at Katerina, clearly unsure about leaving her alone. Fritz touched Claire on the shoulder to get her attention and then nodded toward Katerina. Claire turned to Brenda and said, "sister, I'll help her with the cookies, if Fritz needs a few minutes alone with you."

Brenda chewed her lip, looking at Katerina, who was concentrating very hard on placing evenly spaced dough balls on the cookie sheet in front of her, then she moved her eagle-eyed gaze to Claire, and Fritz knew what she was thinking. Before he could say anything, Claire whispered to Brenda, "don't worry, Fritz already gave me the lecture. From here on out, I'm Nancy Normal." She walked up to Katerina and smiled wordlessly, then began to slide cookies that had just come out of the oven onto the cooling rack.

"Everyone, I'm going to go lie down," Clay said to the room in general. "Claire, why don't you wrap presents in the guest room? Just give me an hour for a brief nap, then I have to start on dinner. You can use the room then if you like." Then he was gone.

Fritz took Brenda by the elbow and led her out the living room, and they sat down on a couple of chairs as far from the kitchen as they could get.

"'Lecture?'" What lecture did you give Claire?" Brenda asked as soon as they sat down. "I'm dyin' to know."

"For Katerina's sake, I gave her a long talk about toning done her personality so she won't traumatize the poor girl all over again. I think she gets it."

"Good," Brenda nodded. "I need her, cuz you and Daddy shouldn't be alone with Katerina, to avoid any misunderstandin's." Brenda rubbed her eyes. "When I was goin' over my family members she was gonna meet, when I mentioned you, she asked if she was expected to have sex with you in exchange for stayin' here."

"Oh god," Fritz said.

"We had a very long conversation about it, but she can't help but be suspicious of every situation. Nobody's done anythin' nice for her since she left home three years ago."

"Well, someone is now," Fritz said gently. " How's it going, by the way?"

"Good. I picked her up about three hours ago. I had her shower first thing to get her horrible makeup off and change clothes, because I think she might have worked last night. She is utterly fascinated by our 'American house.' I'm sure the condo she lived in must have been nice, but I guess her pimp wasn't a subscriber of 'House Beautiful.' She thinks everythin' we have, all our furniture and pictures and things are amazin'. And she even thinks our house is big!"

"I guess someone who has spent her life in a rural Russian village, then a condo and hotel rooms, just might think 1800 square feet is big."

"She went crazy when she saw the pool. Said it was just like on TV."

"Is that why you texted me to buy a bathing suit?"

"Yes, she's dyin' to try it out."

"Brenda, it's a little chilly for swimming, don't you think?"

She laughed. "Oh Fritz, didn't you grow up in New Jersey? Seventy degrees may be cool by California standards, but she's from Russia. Trust me when I say you've never felt cold until you've experienced a Russian winter. Besides, our pool is heated."

"And she doesn't have to worry about searching for her testicles after swimming in cold water."

Brenda covered her mouth to stifle her laugh, a mannerism he found utterly adorable.

Fritz grew serious. "Listen, Brenda, I want to talk to you about your father. He feels really, really bad about what happened this morning."

Brenda's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "He does?"

"Yes, he does. He acknowledges that he was acting like a jerk, and says he owes you a huge apology."

"Alright, Fritz, now I know you're just makin' up stories."

"Oh, so much more. He actually came shopping with us, Brenda, and he paid for everything. The man shelled over $2,000 today if he spent a penny. All because he wants to make amends."

Brenda put a hand on both cheeks and shook her head. "Wait, I am utterly confused. Daddy—paid for everythin' you bought for Katerina'? And he spent—how much?"

Fritz put his arm around her and rubbed her back. "Breathe, baby," he said gently. "Let me tell you the whole story, okay?"

"She nodded, clutching her head. "Go ahead."

"Leave it to my sister to make a simple task into something complicated. In the middle of getting the things you wanted for Katerina—you are going to be very happy with what we picked out, by the way—Claire pointed out that all the other girls who were found in Brentwood weren't getting any presents, and wasn't that really sad? Clay agreed, and they decided to pick out twelve more gifts. Before they start running around the mall like a couple of kids, I call Sharon Raydor to see if we could even get presents to these girls, and she called back a few minutes later, having made arrangements with an FBI agent she's working with to get them transported to the ICE safe house they are staying at."

"You. Are. Kiddin'. Me." Brenda's mouth was hanging open. "Do you know what Sharon's week has been like, and y'all are buggin' her about Christmas presents?"

"Killjoy," Fritz said. "Sharon was thrilled with Claire's idea. So then came the selection of twelve gifts, which after much discussion we decided on similar tops all in size Medium, thinking they will all have the same issue as Katerina, no clothes at all, and they can swap with each other and hopefully end up with something they like. After double backing to stores we've gone to so we can find enough tops, we are all set, then Claire decides to get them stuff from the Body Shop too. Luckily they have little pre-packaged bundles, but when Claire started to ramble about the properties of each essential oil in the shampoos she was sniffing, your father and I teamed up and made a joint decision to bodycheck my sister out of the way and grab twelve different good smelling little bags with small bottles of stuff in them that we have never heard of."

"Oh, I wish I was there to see that," Brenda smiled. "I can't get over…."

"Not done!" Fritz said. "Stop interrupting me, woman! Then Claire decided that the twelve other girls, oh, and Katerina too, must have stockings filled with candy. So we stopped at the stocking kiosk, and repeat Body Shop scene, but this time in the Lindt chocolate store. Although better Claire than you in the chocolate shop, I suppose."

"This is all too much. Please tell me you got your hard-workin' wife a little somethin…"

"You aren't getting any presents unless you let me finish!" Fritz said. "We wrap up shopping for everyone, and I think, finally, we can go home. Then Claire points out that we need out presents wrapped for the other young ladies before we leave the mall, so we go the wrapping kiosk, but of course the line is a mile long, and your dad is getting tired. Claire says to me, in her incredibly loud voice that could shatter crystal, 'Fritzy, show them your FBI badge and tell them about these poor girls so far away from home and how these are there are their only Christmas presents." And of course, someone overheard her and started asking questions, and I told Claire to shut up because I can't show my badge, and Claire ignored me and told some version of this story that these presents were for twelve orphans I rescued, and then people let us cut in front of them until we were in the front of the line."

"Oh my god, Fritz did you really flash your badge?"

"No, of course I didn't! I told people that I couldn't take favors as an FBI agent, nor could I show my badge, though this little kid was begging. But Claire had no problem grabbing the packages and plowing ahead." He leaned back against the chair. "I just really hope I never see any of those people again."

"Well, she did save you a couple of hours in line."

"Which is a good thing, because we had to drive to the LAPD and drop off the presents for an Agent Jenkins, who promised to drive them over to the girls herself later on tonight."

"That's real nice of her."

"And our last stop, grocery store. Your dad said the two of you were cooking a 'Southern feast' tonight. We got all the ingredients." He sat up and took her hand. "Look honey, I didn't get a chance to tell you this because you were sound asleep by the time I got back to the bedroom this morning. I want you to know that I'm really, really proud of you for what you did today."

Brenda looked at him, shock written on all her features. "Proud? I was expectin' a lecture from you about throwin' temper tantrums. But what I had, Fritz, to be honest, was 'enough.' Enough of Daddy bein' a bully."

He shook his head. "No, I know your temper tantrums. I realize you were fed up with your father and you stood up to him. The delivery could have been better planned out, but I'm still proud of you. Don't apologize for what you said, honey."

"I have no intention to," she said, jutting out her jaw in a sign of defiance he both had grown to love and fear.

"Good." He leaned down and kissed her. "On the other hand, Brenda, I can tell you he's really contrite. Go talk to him and hear him out. And do it soon, especially if you two are going to be making dinner, because I'm starving."

She stood up. "Alright. Let me go check on Katerina." They walked hand in hand back to the kitchen.

Claire and Katerina were sitting at the kitchen table opposite of each other, a plate of hot ginger cookies between them, each with a tall glass of milk.

"The best way to eat them is like this," Claire said in the calmest voice Fritz had ever heard her use. She picked up a cookie, broke it in half, dipped it in milk, and took a bite. "Mmmm," she said. "You try."

Katerina, looking as serious as if she were about to perform her first surgery, mimicked Claire's actions, down to the reactionary "mmmm."

"I never eat cookie like this," she said. "I like." She reached for another, as did Claire. "Oh, watch time?" she said, pointing to the oven. Just then the buzzer went off, and Claire got up and took the new batch out. "Perfect!" she said, only slightly louder than her speaking voice.

"Should we point out to Claire that milk and cookies aren't Vegan?" Brenda said.

"Nah. Maybe it's part of her 'normal person' cover. Don't blow it."

Brenda smacked him on the butt. "You're horrible. I'm goin' to speak to Daddy. Wish me luck."

"You don't need it, Brenda, you have yourself. You have everything you need right here." He tapped her head, then her heart, and was rewarded with a smile.

* * *

Brenda stood outside the guest room door and took a slow, deep breath to calm her nerves. _ Easy, you can do this_, she told herself. _You were right to call him out, Fritz said so. Don't let Daddy make you feel guilty._

The embarrassingly few times Brenda had stood up to her father, it had never ended up being worth the effort. Clay had subtle ways of making her pay by infusing guilt here and there, somehow turning the tables so she ended up feeling like the bully. Willie Rae always told Brenda to pay no attention to him, to speak her peace and move on, like she herself was always able to do. But Clay knew better than to try and mess with Willie Rae: she wouldn't be bullied in the first place, and at any sign of it, she put Clay in his place immediately, and she didn't mince words. Maybe that's why he always went after Brenda to extract apologies, because he sure as hell wasn't going to get them from Willie Rae.

_Just remember what he said, how dismissive he was about Katerina, talking about her like she was some dirty streetwalker after hearing her tragic story._ With the fire of that memory restoked, her anxiety was washed away in a wave of anger. _That's a better state of mind_, she thought, and lightly tapped on the door. When she didn't get an answer, she opened the door and stepped in.

Her father was asleep on his back, gently snoring, and considering all his hard work that afternoon, Brenda decided to let him sleep a bit longer. She looked around the guest room in the semi-darkness, amazed at the number of bags with names of her favorite stores on them that littered the floor. _Claire's gonna be wrappin' presents tonight until her fingers are bloody. I better help out a little bit._ Brenda noticed a framed picture on the dresser she didn't recognize and picked it up for closer inspection. It was a photo of her mother with a backdrop of ragged cliffs and azure ocean behind her, and Brenda guessed it was taken on her parents' Hawaiian cruise. Her father must have packed the photo and brought it with him.

She heard Clay stir and turned around just as he opened his eyes. "Mrrrph, you startled me, little girl," he mumbled into his pillow.

"Sorry Daddy, I knocked but you didn't hear me. I don't want to spend too much time away from Katerina cuz I'm the only face she knows, but we need to talk." Her father nodded and sat up on the side of the bed, scratching the top of his bald head. Brenda crossed the room and sat down next to him.

Wordlessly, Clay held his hand out for the framed picture of Willie Rae that Brenda held, and she gave it to him. "You always travel with a photo of Mama?" she asked.

"Sure do," Clay said, cradling it in both hands and looking down at it with stooped shoulders. "Although it didn't help me this time."

"What do you mean, Daddy?"

He sighed heavily and turned to look at her. "I bring it everywhere so it reminds me to conduct myself as if Willie Rae was still alive. It makes me think what she would want me to do in a situation, how she would tell me to behave. Nobody kept me in line like Willie Rae."

Brenda nodded. "She was an expert at that. But what do you mean it didn't help you?"

He made an impatient noise. "Isn't it obvious, Brenda? I've been in a mood ever since I've been here, and I've taken it out on everyone. Claire, Fritz. And you. I have been—" his voice cracked—"I have been missing my Willie Rae so bad this Christmas I can hardly stand it. And how have I dealt with that? I've been mean to everyone. What I said this morning about Katerina…" his voice trailed off, and a sob caught in his throat, and thick tears started to roll down his face. "Brenda, your mother would have been so ashamed of me!"

Without reservation, Brenda turned to her father and wrapped her arms around him as he cried, his sobs so deep that the bed shook. She wasn't sure how long they sat there, child comforting parent, but not it was soon after Clay's tears started that they were joined by Brenda's own. Brenda never ceased to be amazed at the depths of her own grief, and how, when tapped, it seemed to spring from a well with a depth that was unplummable.

At last, Clay's tears stopped flowing, and they took Brenda's with them. He pulled away from her embrace, and Brenda grabbed a box of Kleenex that sat on top of the dresser and offered them to her father. He blew his nose loudly and then said, in a gravelly voice rubbed raw with loss, "I'm not sure if I got the words out between the boo-hooing, but I'm sorry for what I said this morning, darling, and I'm sorry to being a general pain this visit. I deserved what you dished out, Brenda."

"Apology accepted, Daddy."

A beat of silence. And then, "you don't have anything you want to say to me, little girl?"

_Oh yea, Daddy is still Daddy._ "I'm not gonna diminish your humble apology by offerin' my own, Daddy. I said what I said, and I'm not takin' any of it back. Clearly, you needed to hear it."

She snuck a sideways look at Clay. He looked a little shocked, but not angry. _This was good for him, _Brenda thought. _It was good for us both. Personal growth and all that crap._

After sharing a few minutes of silence, Brenda said, "There is one thing I do feel bad about, though. "But it's not you I owe and apology to. I never should have told you about Rusty's past. That was wrong of me."

"Well, I'm not gonna say anything tomorrow night at dinner, if that's what you're worried about, honey. I'm not a complete clod."

She shook her head. "Of course you aren't. That's not the point. It's just that, well, according to Fritz, when I worked at the LAPD, I was a little ruthless when it came to usin' anyone and everyone to close a case. I even got Charlie involved in a murder investigation when she was stayin' with us. Fritz was furious with me, especially because she befriended a victim who ended up dyin.'"

"Oh lord. Never heard about that." Clay looked horrified.

"Yea, well, I give Charlie credit for keepin' my secrets. Anyways, it's a bad habit of mine, usin' people like that, and I've changed a lot in the past year, since I've been at the DA's office. But when I was tellin' you off this mornin', I used Rusty's story, his terrible past he's tryin' to escape, to make a point. And that was really low of me. Real low. Rusty and I are close. Fritz and I consider ourselves emergency backup parents when Sharon needs a hand. And I basically sold him out to win an argument. And I'm supposed to be a good role model for him." She looked at the picture of her mother in Clay's hands. _Mama would be so ashamed of me_.

Clay stood up. "We all backslide, Brenda. Point is you are trying to be a better person. That's what counts." He put the picture back on top of the dresser. "Now what do you say we put in some Perry Como Christmas music and start cooking up a traditional Southern dinner? Let's show Katerina how good food is done in America." He maneuvered around the bags on the floor and reached the door, turning back to look at her.

"Let's say we show her how good Christmas music is done in America and play something besides Perry Como," Brenda said, following her father out the room.

"No way, not gonna happen. It's Perry Como or I won't get myself into the Christmas spirit."

She stopped in the hallway and put her hand out to her father. "Oh, I almost forgot. Fritz told me you paid for everything for Katerina, plus the presents y'all bought for all the other girls. Daddy, that was real generous, and I appreciate it. Thank you so much."

"Well," Clay said, "that was something I wanted to do before I died."

"What?"

"Play Santa Claus."

* * *

The kitchen was a cacophony of scents. The aroma of freshly baked cookies intertwined like a helix with the deep resonance of Cajun spices, and the combination enveloped Brenda and whisked her back to childhood Christmases. She knew it was crazy, but a small part of her was convinced that within the sensory feast, there was a hint of her mother's perfume.

"My grandmother's people were from Louisiana," Clay told Fritz as he stirred the large pot in front of him. "She taught all us kids how to make gumbo the right way, Cajun-style." Clay poked at a chicken leg.

"So that means no shrimp, right?" Fritz asked. Brenda was supposed to be helping her father with dinner, but within ten minutes, Fritz's constant questions about his cooking methods, and Clay's pleasure to have the opportunity to expound on Southern cooking to someone who actually enjoyed being in the kitchen, led Fritz to slowly slip into her place as assistant. Brenda stepped over to the cookie making table, which suited her just fine.

"No shrimp," Clay said firmly. "And I guess a gumbo with no okra is LA-style gumbo."

"Clay," Fritz said lightly, "we could have gone to ten stores today, none of them would have had okra in December."

"I know, I'm just teasing." He sniffed the stew. "I think we're about done here. If the cornbread's ready and the table is set, we are ready to go."

Brenda leaned into her father's ear. "Don't be offended if Katerina doesn't like your cookin', Daddy. Russian food is pretty bland compared to Cajun. I told her if she doesn't like the gumbo, we have left over pork and potatoes."

"No offense whatsoever, honey," Clay said, gingerly pouring the gumbo into a large covered dish. "Although she certainly seems to like Christmas cookies."

Katerina certainly did. Although not the most expressive person, it was obvious that she liked helping out with the baking, and after both Claire and Brenda assured her that she could have as many cookies as she liked, she put away even more than Brenda did.

Claire was amazed. "How do you two stay so thin?"

Katerina shook her head. "No, I don't like. The men say we must be little, make us use treadmill and say, no eat too much. But in Russia, I am not so small. So I eat lots of cookies now." The women laughed. Katerina's serious expression didn't change, but her eyes seemed to lose some of their wariness.

"My mother," she said softly, "she was…" she searched for the word, then spotted Clay and pointed. "Like him. Like Brenda's father." She held out her hand to indicate a large person. "When I gave her hug she was, oh, what is great English word I learn on TV!" She closed her eyes in concentration, and then brightened. "Oh yes, she was cozy. Mother was cozy." They all smiled. Brenda wasn't sure if that was the exact word Katerina was looking for, but it fit.

"Katerina, I have to say that yes, I'm very cozy," Clay said, patting his belly. "And after dinner and some of those cookies, I'll be even cozier."

She nodded. "Ah yes, Brenda's father. Me also."

"For now, ladies, put down your baked goods and join us at the dining room table," Fritz said. In between batches of their third type of cookie, Brenda had set the table with a Christmas cloth and matching napkins and lit gold candles. It looked lovely.

"Ohh, so pretty!" Katerina said. "See, I watch much TV in the day, and I see those shows where the women have lots of love. What is the name?"

"Soap operas?" Clay guessed.

"Yes. That is it. On there they have pretty American houses like this. Nice tables and Christmas trees. I feel like I am on TV right now, it is perfect."

"Katerina, you sit here, next to me. We're glad you think so, and are happy to have you here. But I hope you will find things here a little less dramatic than on soap operas."

Salad, cornbread, gumbo, rice, and baked tofu was passed around, the latter with only one taker, and they all settled down to dig in.

"Remember," Brenda said to Katerina in Russian, "we have other food. You don't have to eat anything you don't like."

"The men ordered most of our food from restaurants. I've had Chinese, Mexican, Indian. I can eat almost anything," Katerina answered in her native tongue.

Her face lit up with her first taste of Clay's creation, then she took another bite, then another. Once she swallowed, she said to Clay, "so good! It's very…oh, I don't know. What is word to say a food kicks in your mouth?"

"Spicy," Brenda said.

"Spicy," Katerina repeated. "I have been here little time and my English already better!"

Brenda beamed. If she had any worries about bringing Katerina into her family for Christmas, they were all gone. The tense, traumatized girl was already letting her guard down, just a bit. And it was beautiful to watch.

...

Stuffed to their gills, Brenda, Fritz, Clay, Claire, and Katerina retired to the living room after the dinner dishes were done. Brenda brought out the cookies and egg nog for everyone. Fritz lit the tree and started a fire. Clay put in a Christmas CD and turned it on low.

"Mmm," Katerina said. "This music, is nice."

Clay looked triumphant. "Why thank you, Katerina. My daughter doesn't think very much of it." Katerina tossed Brenda a confused look and then turned her attention to the tree.

"This," she said, "I could look at all day." She reached out and touched a small silver ornament.

"Katerina," Claire said, "what is Christmas like in Russia?"

Katerina leaned forward and grabbed another chocolate crinkle. "Oh, Russia, not so big. And not now."

"Not now?" Claire asked.

"I think what she means is, Christmas is on January 7th in the Russian Orthodox church," said Brenda.

"My father, no church," Katerina said. "Not much god in Russia for long time, you know?"

Everyone looked at Brenda to explain.

"Under Communist rule, the USSR was atheist. Organized religion was banned. People could only practice religion openly again after the 1992 revolution." Everyone nodded.

"My mother, she tell me stories of Ded Moroz. He like your Santa, but is thin."

"You mean he's not cozy," said Clay, his eyes twinkling.

"No, Ded Moroz not cozy. And the hat is not the same. And he rides in a troika, but no…" she tapped her nose. "With red noses."

Brenda bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn't laugh. "Reindeer."

"Yes, yes. We eat reindeer you know, in Russia. Very good meat."

Claire nearly choked on her egg nog.

"My father said I looked like _Snegurochka_," Katerina said.

"Sneg—" Claire started.

"Snegurochka. If my Russian mythology class from Georgetown still serves, that means 'ice maiden.' She is Ded Moroz's granddaughter, and she helps to deliver presents," Brenda explained.

"Snegurochka gives present when farm is good, but next year, eh, farm not so good, no present." Katerina shrugged, then yawned.

Brenda saw how tired the young woman looked, and said, " if you want to, Katerina, you can go to bed. It's gettin' awfully late, and we have a big day tomorrow."

"Yes, please, sleep." She stood up. "Big day? What is tomorrow?" She looked at everyone with suspicion.

"Oh, tomorrow is Christmas, that's all, Katerina. You aren't goin' anywhere. We wake up and open presents." Brenda pointed to the tree. "I heard that Ded Moroz and Snegurochka are makin' a special trip just for you. Then tomorrow evenin' we are goin' to a friend's house for a big Christmas dinner."

Katerina looked down at her hands and shook her head. "Ded Moroz will come?," she mumbled to herself. "Why? So much, so much here." She raised her eyes and said goodnight to everyone, then headed towards Fritz's study.

After she left the room, everyone was quiet, and Brenda watched the undulating shadows of the tree branches on the wall cast by the flicking fire. She intertwined her fingers with Fritz's and put her head on his shoulder and said, "she's right, honey. We really do all have so much."

**END CHAPTER 10**

**Ooonnnneee mooorreeee chhaaapppptteeerrrrrr. Cheer me to the finish line so I can go back to writing "Welcome Her Home with Red Roses."**

25


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes: This is it, at long last, my Christmas fic is done. In mid-January. Next year, I'm starting my holiday fic in August.**

**I think this very long chapter ties up all the loose ends in the story. And finally, we have the big Christmas dinner! **

**Let me know how you think it went. And many thanks to those of you who have reviewed, favorited, and followed me or this story. I really appreciate it. **

**A couple of people have asked me what the status is of my serial story, "Welcome Her Home with Red Roses." I took a hiatus to write a Halloween fic and then this monstrosity. I hope to have another long chapter out in a few weeks.**

**Chapter 11**

"Shit!"

Sharon cringed at the sound of a heavy object falling on her kitchen floor, the third one within the past ten minutes. This one, at least, didn't sound breakable.

"Rusty, are you sure I can't help you?" She bit her lip, knowing she was treading on thin ice.

Seconds later, Rusty's red face popped out from the kitchen. "Sharon, I've told you a million times today I have things under control. The whole point is for me to cook Christmas dinner for you, and I got it all planned out perfectly. But hey, if you really want to help me, maybe you could try not hovering. You're making me nervous." He crossed his arms and glared at her.

"Oh, I don't want to do that, Rusty. It's just that you've been working so hard, and I'm doing absolutely nothing. I feel guilty." Rusty had been in the kitchen since she had returned from Major Crimes mid-Christmas Eve day, and he was up late into the night and up again early to make…well, she pretended not to notice all the Italian ingredients stacked on the counter, since he made it clear the menu was a surprise. Rusty even insisted on making them a pancake breakfast before present-opening because she was banned from the kitchen. Once present exchange was done and wrapping paper collected, he was right back at it again.

Even if she hadn't seen the culinary clues of Rusty's intent, the tangy aroma of a marriage sautéed in heaven-garlic and onion-that filled her apartment was a dead giveaway. It was a smell that swept her back to her childhood, to weekends at her Nonna's house, of basil and fresh bread and warmth and a way of loving loudly that was frowned upon in her parent's home. Ultimately she took after her reserved Irish father, but always looked at her Italian relatives with envy for their ability to live life with such emotional ease.

"All right, I'll go out running, and when I come back I can try out that really nice soap and lotion you gave me. I love the smell of gardenias."

The sound of metal clanging against the sink rang thought he air, than she heard Rusty mumble, "no, that was the wrong…", and then, as if aware she was listening to every word he was saying, he raised his voice. "Yes, go run! No one is coming over for three hours. Run a few miles at least, Sharon. Jog slowly. Very, very, slowly."

As she stretched out in her living room, she mentally reviewed the list of Chinese restaurants she had found on line that delivered to her house. Just in case.

* * *

Provenza was the first one to arrive, precisely at 6PM. He handed Sharon a holiday floral arrangement and looked around. "Place looks nice," he said, nodding his approval.

Sharon had come back from her run, and to channel her nervous energy and to distract herself from the fear that her kitchen might get set on fire, lit a dozen scented candles around the place, dimmed the lights, set the table, scattered coasters, turned on some Christmas music, and, with the chef's permission, set up a drink station on the buffet table.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," she said, placing the lovely basket filled with pine cones and red roses on a nearby side table. "Got sick of your grandkids early, I see."

"Oh, I spend Christmas Eve day with my son, then went to a huge family brunch with my daughters' families today. That's all four grandkids in twelve hours, and I've had my fill with the under twelve set. Besides, once they opened their presents, they were all about their new iPads or video games or whatever instead of hanging out with Grandpa."

She leaned close to him. "It means so much to Rusty that you're here, it really does."

"You know, Sharon, the Wok-n-Talk down the street is open. Not that I don't trust the kid, I'm just saying." Provenza gave her a knowing look.

"I have all the numbers of places that deliver on speed dial, Lieutenant. But if you ever tell Rusty that I'll deny it."

When Rusty appeared, Sharon was relieved to see he had relented to her nagging and cleaned up before the guests came. He wore a maroon button down and black slacks and was carrying a large tray.

"Hey, Lieutenant! I'm so glad you could make it. Dinner isn't until seven, but I have a bunch of appetizers coming out. I'll bring the hot ones when a few more people are here, but this should start you off." He gestured to bowl of dip with chopped vegetables artfully arranged next to an assortment of cheese and crackers he set down on the coffee table.

" I made the cucumber dill dip," Rusty said, "Turned out okay."

Provenza scooped up a bite with a cracker, carefully avoiding the vegetables. "Not bad, not bad at all," he said, mouth full. "Love the garlic." Rusty nodded, looking pleased.

"Hey, Flynn and I have a present for you, but he's got it, if he shows up."

"He's right behind you, dumbass, and he's hungry." Flynn pressed his way in through a half open front door.

A timer went in the background, and Rusty sprung like a puma, all taut muscles and energy. "Wait, don't go anywhere!" Rusty sprinted off.

Provenza chuckled. "He's been like that all day," Sharon said. "Come in, Andy. Drinks are on the sideboard. Appetizers are trickling out."

"Captain," Flynn said, lowering his voice, "I think Chinese restaurants deliver if there's any problems with dinner…"

"We know," Provenza and Sharon said in unison.

"Watch out, something hot coming through!" Rusty came back into the living room carrying another platter with pita bread and a bubbling dish of something delicious. He put it next to the Crudités with a small flourish. "Hot artichoke and cheese dip! You're gonna love it!"

"You make this from scratch, kid?" Flynn asked him.

"Sure did."

"Well then, I guess it's a good thing Provenza and I got you this." He handed Rusty a wrapped box. "Go ahead, open it."

Rusty glanced back toward the kitchen nervously, than quickly tore open the present. It was a long dark blue apron with his name embroidered on it in white thread.

"The blue is very butch," Provenza said.

"Hey, this is great, thanks!" Rusty put it on. "How do I look?"

"Like a professional." Flynn said.

There was another knock at the door. Sharon turned to answer it, and Rusty said, "you guys eat and stuff, Sharon you play hostess, and I'll hang out more after dinner when I'm done cooking, okay?"

"Rusty," Sharon started, "Let me know…"

"…if you need help. Got it." He waved and disappeared.

"Thank you so much for inviting me, Captain," Agent Patrice Jenkins said, looking around at Sharon's condo. She was casually dressed in jeans and looked like a much younger version of her stiff FBI self.

"My pleasure, and you aren't here in an official capacity, so please call me Sharon. You have been working so hard I imagine you haven't had much of a Christmas, and this dinner tonight was open to anyone who wanted to come." She pointed out drinks and munchies, and encouraged Agent Jenkins to help herself.

"Please, call me Patrice," she said, filling a small plate with appetizers. "My family is in Arizona, and I had to cancel my travel plans because of this case, which was unfortunate, but that's the life, right?" She took a bite of her food. "Oh my god, this artichoke dip is incredible! Did you make this?"

Sharon sat down and helped herself to Rusty's efforts. "No my foster son is cooking the entire meal. His idea. I haven't lifted a finger all—oh, it has cheese in it! And about a billion calories!" _ I think I would eat this entire crock of dip if there weren't guests here. Thank god I went running._  
"That's what makes it soooo good," Provenza said, going in for more. "And there are no calories in Christmas."

The Johnson-Howard clan arrived in one big, noisy group. Clay had loud hellos for Provenza and Flynn, a handshake for Sharon, and a shout across the condo at Rusty. Claire had a big hug for Andy Flynn and Provenza, but managed to keep her hands to herself when introduced to Sharon. Brenda handed Sharon a box of Lindt chocolates and a nice bottle of port. She was stunning in a red long sleeve bell sweater and black skirt, and Fritz his usual GQ handsome self.

It was Katerina's winter stillness in the midst of the noise that caught Sharon's attention, mainly because she wasn't as glacial was she had been a mere 40 hours earlier. It wasn't just that she looked different, although that contributed to her thaw. Gone were the revealing clothes and hooker makeup, replaced with plain tan pants and a modest royal blue vee-neck sweater that brought out her eyes. She seemed more graceful than fragile, and despite the air of sadness about her, seemed less…hard. No longer as if she were braced to receive a blow. If Sharon had to put it into words, she would say that a day enveloped with the Johnson-Howards had given Katerina back a layer of her humanity.

"It's good to see you again, Katerina," she said to the young woman. "Thank you for coming to my house for dinner."

Katerina was looking around at Sharon's condo. "Oh, so nice!" she said. "I think more nice than Brenda's house!" she walked over to the tree and began to inspect the ornaments.

Sharon and Brenda looked at each other and bit their lips to stop themselves form laughing at Katerina's accidental insult.

"Sharon, she will be your friend for life if you give her a tour of your beautiful American house," Brenda whispered. "Just make sure you end that tour right in front of the food. She likes to eat."

Sharon nodded and walked over to where Katerina was standing alone by the Christmas tree. "Pretty isn't it?" she asked.

"Oh yes, I like all the, what do you call these?" She pointed to one of Sharon's angels.

"Angels. I think you can't have too many angels on a tree, do you?"

Katerina pointed to a blonde cherub, "This one look like my sister Vika. You see Vika, no?"

Sharon nodded sadly. "Yes I did, Katerina. She was beautiful."

Katerina looked at her, crystal blue pools filled with a silent pain. "I ask Brenda so much questions, so I ask you one now, okay?"

"Okay, anything. I'll do my best to answer."

Katerina hesitated, as if struggling with the words. "Vika here a year, no? In America? She happy here?" Sharon heard he desperation behind those words; Katerina was so full of want, was needy for a crumb that the sister she neglected in Russia had some joy in her life when dragged across the world on her behalf.

"Oh yes," she said, "She went to school and got good grades, and she was fluent in English after just one year. I read some of her school reports, and her teachers loved her."

"Ah, smart girl," Katerina murmured.

Sharon understood the importance of taking a half truth and molding into a complete story when it brought comfort to victims' families. She was grateful she had spoken to Carolyn Costello and thus knew Vika had a life beyond the dingy apartment she died in. "Vika had a best friend named Michelle, and every weekend she stayed at Michelle's beautiful American home. I met Michelle's mother and she loved your little sister very much, and she was always doing nice things for those little girls. In fact, she took them to see the Ballet perform the Nutcracker!" _A lie created from intent and good will_, Sharon thought. The Costello family had tickets to take Vika to the Nutcracker two nights after she died..

Katerina's eyes lit up and filled with tears. "This lady take Vika to ballet and do American things with her? Oh, such good friend! I am so happy!"

A small cursive letter gold "K" on a delicate chain around Katerina's neck glinted in the lights of the Christmas tree. Sharon, being a woman of good taste, could tell it was 14 karat.

"Katerina, what a lovely necklace! I didn't see that on you the other night."

Katerina reached up and fingered the letter K, a ghost of a smile played on her lips. "Present from Brenda's father. In morning by tree were many presents for me, so many! Much clothes, so pretty. Brenda's father give me this, and he say, he say my Poppa not here to give me Christmas present. So he get it for me instead." A tear broke loose and slid down Katerina's cheek.

"Mr. Johnson is very generous." Sharon thought back to the coordinating she was called upon to do on Christmas Eve to get presents to other twelve girls who were rescued from Ivan Zubov's clutches.

Katerina snapped her fingers. "Oh yes, that is the word. Gen-er-ous. Means you give much, right? Brenda and her family are generous."

"They are, Katerina."

"Katerina crossed her arms and tilted her chin. "I understand not. Why they are so. I have nothing to give them."

_Every human connection is a transaction with her, because she doesn't remember it any other way._ "They are generous, Katerina, to show you that there are still good people in the world."

Katerina was silent, and Sharon didn't want to stress the troubled girl with discussing existential issues such as the fundamental nature of humanity. "Come with me, Katerina, and I'll show you the rest of the condo."

Sharon stopped in the kitchen under the guise of introductions, and Rusty seemed happy to meet Katerina. She tried not to grimace when she saw the mess of spattered food and dirty pots and pans that clogged the normally pristine space. Sharon explained that Rusty was cooking dinner, and Katerina said, "I help with cookies at Brenda's house. I love nice kitchen. I help you?" A thin strand of eagerness was detected in her voice.

To Sharon's great relief, Rusty said yes. "Take this one to the living room," he looked at Sharon to make sure Katerina understood as he handed her a plate, "and walk around with these and ask people if they want one. Is that okay?"

"This one, like this." She mimicked putting the plate down. "This one, I hold and say, please have one," Katerina said slowly, looking at Rusty for confirmation.

"Hey, your English is really good. You got it!"

"I know more than I can say. I go now." She carried the two platters with the caution of one handling a newborn.

Rusty held Sharon back. "So how's she doing?" he asked her.

"Honestly, Rusty, she's a different girl than she was the other night at the LAPD. Whatever Brenda and Fritz's family did to her, it's good medicine. Thanks for letting her help."

He nodded. "I'm glad. Now get out of my kitchen please."

"Your kitchen—"

"Out!" He held out his arm and pointed.

Sharon found a small group congregating around Rusty's latest treat. "What do we have here?" She asked Fritz, who was digging in enthusiastically.

"Oh, your genius foster son just gave us brie cheese in a puff pastry." Fritz slathered a large piece of melted brie on a thin slice of French bread and took a bite. "Oh, with apricot preserves!"

"I am so glad I'm doing dairy today!" Claire said, a long piece of brie sticking to her chin. "Because this is to die for."

"You want?" Katerina asked, holding out a platter with small baby quiches on it. Sharon smiled and picked up one.

"Thanks Katerina, that's just perfect, if you have offered it to everyone you can put it down. And make sure you taste all of this food. That will make Rusty happy."

When Katerina was out of earshot, Flynn sidled up to Sharon. "So you take the girl who has been trafficked and turn her into a domestic slave?" He nodded at Katerina. "Real smooth, Sharon."

Sharon had to attend to some important business. She touched Brenda lightly on the shoulder. "Before dinner gets started and there is the inevitable food coma, I was wondering if we could talk?"

"Absolutely." Brenda handed her plate to Fritz and followed her back to her bedroom. Sharon shut the door behind them and gestured for Brenda to sit on the chair by her vanity while she sat on her bed.

"Everythin' okay, Sharon?" Brenda asked.

"Everything's fine. Well, it will be if my kitchen doesn't burn down everyone's leaves here tonight without food poisoning."

"You know Sharon, Chinese restaurants are usually open…"

"That won't be necessary," she said sharply.

Brenda's eyes got big. "Oh Sharon, I didn't mean—"

She put her hand to her mouth. _What is wrong with me?_ "Brenda, I pulled you aside to apologize for being such a bitch to you these past few days, and I'm still giving you a hard time. I'm so sorry."

Brenda looked uncertain. "Sharon, it's okay. It's been tough, us workin' together."

"I made it tough, Brenda. And I feel that I owe you an explanation why." Sharon took a deep breath, never a fan of opening up to others, but she knew she owed it to Brenda. "When I was asked to take over Major Crimes after you left, I was overwhelmed. I felt undertrained, but it was so much more than that. You are a legend at the LAPD. Your squad worshipped you. Beautiful, brilliant, former CIA agent…Brenda, you are like a character in a novel, and I was just the bitch from Internal Affairs. I felt that like the fat book worm asked to replace the prom queen."

Brenda looked a little shocked. "I never knew you felt that way."

"There was not a lot of room for showing my feelings," she said. "There wasn't a lot of room for anything but powering through and finding my own way. Which I did. Slowly, the squad began to tolerate me, even though I'm dreaming if I think they will ever put me on the pedestal they had you on."

"Sharon, if I were ever up on a pedestal, I say I fell pretty hard on my ass with those lawsuits," Brenda said bitterly.

"I'm not so sure about that. Anyways, we were all plugging along until the Popova case, then I needed you, and then the squad got a great 'before and after' comparison." Sharon stood up and walked to the window. "And I felt like everything I built was starting to shake on its foundations."

She heard Brenda take a sharp breath. "Sharon, what did I do?"

"Absolutely nothing. It's what I did. All of a sudden, I felt the need to work in your style, to drop everything and be in the office constantly. And that's not how I usually do things. I delegate a lot, and I don't usually spend night after night in the office. I can't work the hours you did. I have Rusty.

"And that's one thing that makes me so mad at myself. I was engaged in this petty competition with you, and I felt like I had to be in the office all the time or I would look bad. Rusty got ignored after I swore I would give him a really good Christmas since my son Ricky decided not to come home. I let my insecurities get the best of me, and Rusty suffered for it. I can't tell you how angry I am at myself. Especially because if I was around, he probably wouldn't have had had the opportunity to go back onto the streets and find his friend Raisa, putting himself at risk of getting his throat slit by those Russian barbarians. Some mother I am, huh?"

"Sharon, you are bein' way too hard on yourself. Rusty is a smart kid, and if he was determined to go to talk to Raisa, he was gonna do it if you were home with him or not. He's 17 years old, for Heaven's sake. He would be all 'Sharon I'm gonna go buy some brie for my big dinner' and the next thing you know, he's hangin' out with a revengeful Russian prostitute drinkin' a latte in Starbucks."

"Well, yes, you do have a point there. H probably would have gone out and found Raisa regardless. Still, what I'm 'fessing up to, and I can't tell you how hard this is for me to say, is when faced with a side-by-side comparison, I panicked. I was hell bent and determined to cover the eyes of everyone around me, so they couldn't see the truth." Sharon's throat constricted, the words barbs in her throat.

"What truth, Sharon? What am I missin' here?" Brenda said softly.

_As if she doesn't know._ "You belong in Major Crimes, Brenda. You never should have left. What happened two years ago was a travesty, and now everything is wrong. I belong in Internal Affairs, not trying to fill your shoes. When you put us together, it's so damn _obvious_." She spat out the last word like it was poison.

Brenda was quite for a long time, longer than Sharon thought she was capable of. Sharon turned around and looked at her. Brenda was staring, unfocused, into space, a strange look on her face. Finally, she rubbed her temples as if her head hurt.

"I had a big revelation this week too, you know. But just to show you how different we are, you and I looked at the same situation and reached opposite conclusions."

"Oh really?"

"Yea. And since you've been so honest with me, let me see if I can't return the favor. Though this spill your guts stuff isn't easy on me. Ask Fritz."

"It isn't easy on me either. Ask my kids."

Brenda nodded. "Well, that's one way we're alike." She fidgeted in her chair for moment before speaking again.

"Work's been slow lately, and I've been thinkin' about my time in Major Crimes, how it was never borin', and I started missin' bein' there. Then you called, and I got to go back and work on a case, and it was like my blood was singin'. Until I got reminded what my place was. I was just the consultant, I was not Deputy Chief. Once my part was done, when and I told you what I found out about Katerina bein' trafficked and why the Popova's were in LA, you didn't need me anymore, and I had to leave havin' no idea how the case was gonna turn out. And I have to tell you, Sharon, that hurt like hell."

"I'm sorry, I never meant to treat you like the hired help."

"S'okay. Cuz that was my problem, wasn't it? So yea, I went home that afternoon and felt real sorry for myself, bitin' everyone's head off, wishin' I was back in the squad room. I felt like you did, Sharon, like somethin' was real wrong, I was wasn't where I was supposed to be. Brenda looked down at her intertwined fingers.

"But you know, I was wrong about that. Very wrong. The other night, when we talked to Katerina, I realized somethin'." She shook her head very slowly. "You know Sharon, I've done some horrible death notifications in my day. I've told people they've lost entire families, watched them throw up, pass out, attack each other, attack me, scream obscenities, and I don't remember what all. And I could do that and shut myself off from their misery, go home and have dinner with Fritz, and move on to the next case. I was good at just lettin' all that pain just slide off, because the people who can't do that become those crazy bitter cops everyone is afraid of who end up whackin' someone, and I didn't that to be me someday."

_Everyone was a little afraid of you and you basically killed Turell Baylor, but that's neither here nor there,_ Sharon thought.

"But the other night with Katerina, it just wasn't so easy. "You know how cats have nine lives? Maybe I had a finite number of times I could ruin someone's life with devastatin' news, and I used them all up." Brenda wrapped her arms around herself. "Cuz I don't ever want to do that again, Sharon. I'm done. Any fantasy I had about bein' back in Major Crimes is over."

Sharon sat down again and stared at the petite blonde. She never would have guessed that Brenda had the slightest difficulty the night they told Katerina about her family. She seemed to be in perfect control, going back and forth between English and Russian like flipping a switch, changing from a sympathetic tone when talking to Katerina to an authoritative one when addressing others.

"I'm sorry I dragged you back for that, then, Brenda," she said. "I didn't know—"

"No, Sharon, you aren't hearing me. Askin' me to come back and help out on this case was the best Christmas present you could have given me. Sure, you were a little snippy, but I would have been ten times worse if the situation was reversed. What the Popova case gave me was the opportunity to realize that I am really glad I'm in the DA's office now, that the part of my life where I'm standin' over dead bodies of children and starrin' in someone's worst day is over, and I'm so glad. No more regrets. I got it all out of my system this week."

This wasn't what Sharon expected to hear at all. "Glad I could help with that," she said finally.

"And one more thing, Sharon. We are both exactly where we should be. You do an amazin' job runnin' Major Crimes. Do you know how impressed I am that you do my old job while raisin' a foster kid? I can't even imagine. Sometimes I think my marriage was on borrowed time back then. There was only so long Fritz was gonna put up with how badly I neglected him because of the job. But you aren't a micromanager, and that means Provenza gets to use his years of experience as incident commander, as he should. You got things runnin' great, Sharon, despite your lack of investigative experience. You should be very proud of yourself. And you know what?"

"Hmmm?" Sharon's head was spinning.

"There is no one else in the world I would want to hand over Major Crimes to than you," Brenda said. "And I mean it." She stood. "And if we get any more sharin'-and-carin' with each other, I'm gonna lose my appetite. I don't wanna be in hear braidin' each other's hair and tellin' ghost stories while everyone else gets to eat Christmas dinner."

"I agree." As Brenda headed to the door, she said "and thank you, Brenda. You gave me a great Christmas present too."

"You're welcome. And you tell that smart-ass foster son of yours that a crime scene can be big enough for the both of us. It's just a tight fit is all."

Sharon poured herself a glass of wine and refreshed Brenda's as they rejoined her guests. Patrice Jenkins was talking to Fritz and Clay as she sat next to them on the couch. Claire was sitting cross-legged on the floor like a little kid.

"…hasn't really told us what's gonna happen to Katerina when she leaves," Clay was saying. "You said you're the FBI agent who works with these types of case, right? Do you know what's goin' on?"

"Haven't had a chance to elaborate with Katerina around, Daddy," Brenda said, sitting next to him and grabbing a cracker. "She in the kitchen with Rusty, I presume?"

"She is," Fritz said. "I think she might be destined to go to Culinary school too."

"To answer your question, Clay," Patrice said, "in a few days Katerina is going to go to a rehabilitation center for sex trafficking victims. There are several in the United States. We are still figuring out which of the girls will go where. Many of the centers are for girls ages 13 to 17, so Katerina and a few of the others are too old. But there are plenty of options."

"'Rehabilitation Center?'" Clay said. "Sounds like she has a drug problem."

"It's an unfortunate name, I'll grant you that. In 2000 the US passed a law called the Human Trafficking Act that provides education and intervention for human trafficking, and also to set up these centers where girls and women who have been sexually exploited can recover. The victims usually stay about two years and get intense counseling, job training, language skills, and can work towards citizenship. They are amazing programs."

"Really? The government pays for all that?"

"Remember that, Daddy, the next time you have the urge to vote Republican," Brenda said.

"I'm gonna ignore that," Clay said. "Patrice, there are enough girls in the US like Katerina that they have multiple places for them to go and get help? Really?"

"It's a big problem in the US. And it's not just girls and women from countries like Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia that are trafficked. Anyone who is poor and powerless is vulnerable. Teenage runaways, illegal immigrants, neglected kids. Traffickers are the worst types of pimps imaginable. They have to exert total control over their victims, and the cruelty they use to do so is extreme. That's why it's so important we just don't put these girls on a plane back to Russia. They need help."

"But what if they want to go home?" Fritz asked. "I know Katerina doesn't have a reason to want to go back to Russia, but the other girls might. The youngest is 14, right? How can we keep them here?"

"We're working with the Consulate on this issue, but this bottom line is this. The trafficking network that kidnaped Katerina is pretty organized, and we have no idea if Ivan Zubov and the other men we arrested part of a much larger network or not. Even if he isn't, if it's just a handful of people back in Russia and Albania, there's a good chance word has surely gotten back to them that Zubov has been arrested."

Fritz groaned. "They would murder those girls the second their plane landed."

Patrice nodded. "They might. And even if they didn't, these girls are so psychologically damaged that if we just sent them back to their small villages in Russia as they are, their chances of something similar happening again are extremely high."

"So Russia wants us to keep them in the States for awhile."

"Like I said, we're working it out, but it's best for everyone. It's a hard sell for the girls, though. Their parents grew up in Communist Russia, so they've heard stories of 're-education camps.'"

"What are those?" Claire asked.

"Gulags," Brenda answered, frowning. "Anyone who didn't toe the Communist party line would be sent for some hard labor and attitude adjustment."

"Brenda," Patrice said, "From what I can tell, you and Katerina are really hitting it off. I was wondering in a couple of days if perhaps you could bring her to the safe house where all the other girls are staying. You speak Russian, and Katerina is growing more comfortable with you, so maybe if you can continue talking to her about the rehabilitation center, she could assuage the fears of the others."

"Be happy to," Brenda said.

"Oh, that reminds me," Patrice said, turning to Clay. "I wanted to thank you and you and you," she pointed to Fritz, Claire and Clay, "for the presents you bought for the other girls."

"Did they get delivered?" Claire asked.

"Drove them over myself. The girls were busy decorating a Christmas tree someone had bought them. The ICE agents there told me that it was such a treat to have someone other than a drug dealer dragged across the border from Mexico—or one they were getting ready to deport—who was testifying against his buddies they are all pitching in to give these young ladies a nice Christmas."

"Oh, that's so great!" Claire squeaked.

"The agent told me one of his coworkers and his wife were coming to make a big Christmas breakfast, and a few others were going to bring dinner. So having your presents to put under the tree was just perfect."

"Oh, I am so happy to hear that," Brenda said. "Katerina felt really guilty this mornin' cuz we bought her a lot of stuff. When we told her that we got presents for her friends, she felt a lot better."

Patrice laughed. "You should have seen them. They basically knocked me over and tore into the stockings then and there. They were completely thrilled with the chocolate. It was nice to see them acting like normal young people."

"We got a smile out of Katerina when she opened a special gift from my Daddy this mornin,'" Brenda said, putting her arm over her father's shoulder. "It was one of the nicest things I've ever seen."

Further conversation was prevented by Rusty, who entered the living room and announced, with much gravitas, "dinner is served."

"Showtime," Sharon whispered.

"I have faith," Brenda said. "If the appetizers show anythin', it's gonna be great."

Rusty, wearing the apron Flynn and Provenza got for him, held his arms out in a grand gesture and escorted his guests into the dining room. The candles on the table were lit and at each place a salad was waiting.

"Sharon, you sit at the head," Rusty said. "I'm next to you here. Everyone else, sit wherever you want."

"Lieutenant Flynn, I'd love to sit next to you," Claire said.

Andy looked like he wanted to chew off his own arm to get away from her. "Uh, Claire, I want to sit next to your sister-in-law. Brenda and I need to catch up." Flynn quickly took a seat next to Brenda, who was flanked by Fritz on the other side. Provenza, ever the best friend, sat down on the other side of Andy.

_Flynn wants to sit next to Brenda?_ Sharon thought. _ They must have made up. It's a Christmas miracle._

When everyone was settled, Rusty cleared his throat.

"Thanks so much for coming for Christmas dinner. I wanted to—" Rusty was interrupted by a loud thump outside the front door, followed by a sharp knock.

Sharon looked at Rusty. "Did you invite someone I don't know about?" she asked.

"No, did you?" He gestured for Sharon to stay seated and went to the door.

A very disheveled and exhausted looking Ricky Raydor was waiting outside.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Rusty demanded. "I thought you had better things to do than come here for Christmas."

Sharon jumped out of her seat. "Rusty!" she said sharply. In a few quick strides she stood in front of her son, who smiled tiredly at her.

"Took me four flights to get here," he said. "I was supposed to arrive around 11PM last night. I've eaten nothing but peanut m&m's and a Cinnabon. Do you think you could let a fellow in?" His lopsided, tired grin brought tears to her eyes, and she threw her arms around him.

"I can't believe you're here," she sniffed. She didn't realize until she saw Ricky with this thick, out of control dark hair and his green eyes so much like her own how much she really missed him.

He hugged her back. "I'm here, Mom. And you still haven't let me in."

She let go of him and stroked his face, then backed up so he could drag his suitcase in. Rusty was still standing like a sentinel, glowering.

"Ricky, you're messing up my dinner!"

"Rusty," Sharon said softly, as to not embarrass him in front of the guests. "Ricky went through hell to get here. Now be a good host and find another chair, okay? Take the one from my bedroom." Rusty tossed her a dirty look and clomped away.

"Don't mind him, Ricky, he'll get over being mad. I know he's thrilled you're here. Oh!" Sharon suddenly remembered her guests. "Everyone, this is my son Ricky! And as you can tell, we didn't know he was coming." She turned to him. "Not that I'm not thrilled, but why are you here?"

Ricky busied himself with picking up his suitcase again. "I changed my mind," he said simply. 'I'm going to throw this in Rusty's room, and then wash up for a sec. I won't be long. I don't want to get in any worse trouble with Chef Ramsey." She watched her son drag his suitcase down the hall, glowing.

"Sharon, he is the spitting image of you!" Provenza said.

"He's the spitting image of Harry Potter!" Claire said.

"What can we do to get a place for Ricky set up?" asked Fritz.

After a few minutes of rearranging the table to accommodate the new diner, Rusty handed him a salad, mumbling something about it being a good thing he made plenty of food.

Ricky said to Sharon, "I need a wine glass, Mom, in the worst way. I am desperate for a drink."

She gestured to the side board, and Ricky got up and brought back a few bottles of wine, which he passed around before filling his own glass.

Rusty again cleared his throat. "Okay, as I was saying before the guy who was supposed to be here three days ago and cancelled and now decided to show up right before dinner, thanks to everyone for coming tonight. I made this in honor of Sharon." He paused and put his hands out as if presenting her. "Sharon is half Italian, so tonight is an Italian feast."

A murmur went around the table. _They're impressed with Rusty_, Sharon thought. _Doesn't matter what the food tastes like or if we end of eating crab Rangoon. _

"I'll be serving a traditional Italian dinner with several courses. Now, I doing some of the courses out of order, because who wants to eat a salad right before dessert? I don't get that. So we are starting with, oh, wait." Rusty pulled an index card out of his pants pocket. "Insalada. This salad is a caprese salad. It's got basil and olive oil dressing, plus the other stuff you can see for yourself. I'm going to get the focaccia bread, so go ahead and start. Or, as the Italians say—he consulted the index card again—'Manga!'" Rusty scurried off to the kitchen.

"So far, he gets an A," Provenza said, taking a bite of the mozzarella. "This is the real stuff, not that yellow crap you buy in the store. He really went to a lot of effort."

"Sharon, what a great kid," Patrice said. "Oh, this is great with the fresh basil. "Did you teach him how to cook?"

"Ha!" Rusty said, returning and placing a basket of bread in front of Sharon and another one at the other end of the table. "She's too busy working. I do most of the cooking around here."

"He absolutely does," Sharon said. "He's a natural. Rusty, this is delicious."

"We're just getting started." And again, he was gone, returning a few minutes later carrying a patter Sharon didn't recognize.

"Rusty, where did you get that?" she nodded to the brightly colored oversized ceramic dish. "You didn't go out and buy a bunch of dishes, did you?"

He handed it to her. "No, I just borrowed a few things from Mrs. Carmichael. She saw me hauling in all these groceries and I told her what I was doing, and I mentioned I was worried you didn't have enough serving dishes and stuff. So she lent me a bunch. Now stop quizzing me and start passing."

She looked up at what she was holding. "Oh, wow, Rusty."

The large round plate was covered with a bed of lettuce, and on it was arranged rolled up pieces of salami with toothpicks, thin slices of prosciutto, artichoke hearts, marinated olives, roasted red peppers, and a wedge of parmesan cheese. It was a work of art, something one would expect to be served at a fine Italian restaurant.

"This next course, which Sharon holds in her hands , is overlapping with Insalada because they go together if you ask me, is Antipasto. I think you can figure out what everything is." He looked up at Flynn. "And before you ask me, I made the red pepper and artichoke hearts, but the rest came from this amazing store that sells fresh Italian pasta and stuff."

"Moreno's? " Provenza asked.

"Yea, you've heard of it?" Rusty asked. "It got great reviews on Yelp. And the guy who owns the place is cool."

"That would be Lorenzo, he is a great guy, and yea, I know the place. Old Italian ladies give more accurate reviews than Yelp, and that place has quite a reputation." Provenza held up one finger. "You made the artichoke hearts, huh? I happen to be an aficionado of artichoke hearts. You marinate them too long, they taste like skunked wine. Let me see how you did." He picked one up on the end of his fork and bit into it.

Sharon could tell Rusty was holding his breath.

"Ahh, perfection," he said, nodding, and Rusty smiled.

"Rusty, are you going to sit down and eat any of your own food?" Sharon asked.

He shook his head. "Not until the last course is served. Then I'm going to stuff my face and leave the dishes until tomorrow. But don't worry about me. Eat!" He picked up the butter next to Clay Johnson's elbow and passed it to her. "Try the focaccia . I had some and its awesome."

She took a bite. It was, indeed, awesome. As was everything he brought out.

When the last bit of prosciutto had been picked at and everyone had finished their salad, Rusty came out and collected the remnants of the first two courses. Katerina said, "I can help, please," but Rusty refused. "No, I just want you to relax and enjoy being a guest. You did enough earlier." Her expression clouded over with confusion, and Brenda leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and she nodded. "Rusty a nice boy," she said to Sharon. "I never see a boy cook before."

"He's very special, Katerina," Sharon said. The glow of pride she felt since the beginning of the evening grew with each course.

Ricky was telling everyone about his traveling horrors. "My flight was last minute, so okay, three flights to get here, that's fine, and then I get stranded in Duluth—Duluth! Do you know it was ten below zero there? Then they flew me to—" he stopped when Rusty set down a large steaming bowl of ravioli in front of him.

"The next course is 'Pasta,' but that's kind of obvious. This is cheese ravioli, and I'm bringing out sausage and meatballs in a second." He wrinkled his forehead. "Oh Claire, did you bring your to-fake-turkey stuff or whatever you Vegans eat? If not, I got plain pasta, and you can have that with marinara sauce."

"Oh, it's okay Rusty, I'm doing dairy today," Claire said. "It's easier. So I'm all set with the ravioli, which looks YUM!"

"And Lieutenant Flynn, you're a vegetarian, but the marinara doesn't have any meat, so you're good."

"Thanks kid. You up all night making these?"

"Nah, The ravioli from Moreno's. I made the marinara sauce, though, and I think it turned out pretty good." Sharon heard the hint of pride in his voice.

"Good lord, how many courses are there?" I need to know how much room to leave, because this ravioli looks amazing. Oh, and so does this sausage this bright young man had the sense to put down right in front of me." Clay had the serving spoon on the way to his plate almost before Rusty set the serving bowl down.

"Any way you can come over and teach Brenda to cook like this?" Fritz said from around a large meatball.

"Very funny," Brenda said, frowning. "Rusty is proof that contrary to popular thinkin', havin' testicles doesn't get in the way of cookin'," She pointed at her husband with her fork.

"Hey, I cook with my testicles all the time!" The table erupted in laughter, and when Fritz realized what he had said, his face reddened. "What I meant to say was—"

"I don't want to hear any more about your testicles, Agent Howard." Provenza turned his attention to Rusty and said, "you couldn't have made a better marina sauce, or 'gravy' as we Italians call it, if you were wearing a wifebeater tee-shirt and singing opera off-key."

"Was that a complement?" Rusty asked.

"I'd say yes, but you never know," said Flynn.

Rusty leaned against the wall, looking more pleased with himself than Sharon had ever seen him. People were oohing and ahhing and reaching across the table for more of everything. _This was so good for him_, she thought. What 17-year-old could throw a dinner party for ten people! She felt ashamed for her research on backup Chinese delivery. She should have had more faith in him.

"You said you made tons of this, Rusty?" Ricky asked, shoveling food in his mouth like he hadn't eaten in weeks. "Cuz I'm going to be here until January 2nd. This will be awesome for leftovers."

Sharon realized that she had been so focused on Rusty and making sure he was doing okay as chef/host that she hadn't introduced the other guests to Ricky. She noticed that when she presented Brenda, Ricky scowled for a second, and then regained composure. _ I must have badmouthed her too many times during our enemy phase_, she thought, _to make Ricky to act that way_.

Pasta finished, Rusty emerged, carrying yet another unrecognizable platter. He looked at the table and stopped. "Shit, I mean crap, plates have red sauce on them," he mumbled, his eager expression melting into frustration. He looked at the serving dish in hand. "Uh, change of plans. I need to get everyone a clean plate. Hold onto your fork and I'll be right back." Looking slightly panicked, he took the next course back into the kitchen.

Ricky stood up and started collecting everyone's dirty plate. "I used to be a busy boy in high school," he said. "I'll help him out."

"Ricky," Sharon warned, "he does not want help You are just going to make him angry."

Ricky stacked the plates and said, "that's too bad, Mom. He's getting it anyways."

"Oh, this should be interesting," Sharon murmured, taking a drag from her wine. "I just hope they don't start throwing the plates. Then there really won't be enough to go around."

"What's a holiday without a little family drama?" Fritz said.

Rusty's voice was heard loud and clear from the kitchen. "I don't need your help, Ricky. Just go sit down."

"Listen, Little Bro, I know my mom doesn't have 20 plates, so take the clean ones she does have, load up the next course, serve them to people, and I'll get these washed. Two person job, it will only take a minute." He was drowned out by running water.

Everyone at the table looked at each other and then at Sharon. "I take it your two boys don't get along too well," Clay said.

"No, actually, they're great friends. Rusty is just mad because Ricky initially cancelled his Christmas trip home. He'll get over it. He should be glad Ricky's here, although I don't really know why he changed his mind."

"Oh, you shouldn't question it," Brenda said lightly. "He was probably moved by the Christmas spirit."

"…don't need your help! You can't just blow in here and tell me what to do!" Rusty's raised voice cut off further conversation in the dining room. Guests looked around at each other awkwardly.

"Oh no," Sharon cradled her head in her hand. "It was all going so well."

She could barely make out Ricky's words. "Listen Rusty, you have two choices. You can be pissed at me and make the guests wait way too long for the next course, and the food you worked so hard to make will get cold, or you can do the mature thing. Accept my help and keep the dinner flowing. Your choice."

Silence.

"Wash quickly." Loud stomping across the kitchen floor.

"More wine, anybody?" Sharon said brightly. Everyone but Fritz and Flynn held up their glasses.

Rusty emerged five minutes later with a scowl on his face and two plates in his hand. "Uh, sorry about the delay," he said. "Technical problems." He served Sharon and Provenza first, and pulled out his cheat sheet again. "This course is Secondo, and I have no idea why I couldn't remember that." He stuffed the paper back in his pocket. "It is usually meat or seafood. I think a big hunk of meat is pretty heavy right after pasta, so I went with fish. This—" he gestured to Sharon's plate—" is fish baked in parchment paper, which I think is really cool. It's a filet of sole with lemon, butter, zucchini, and herbs. And white wine. Oh!" He turned to Fritz and Flynn. "I made two without wine. I used broth instead, so I hope it turns out okay."

Ricky came out carrying four plates at once. "I think I have the alcohol-free ones here. You put a black dot on the outside, right?"

"Yea," Rusty said, and pointed out the appropriate targets. "Claire, I didn't know if you did fish or not. I have an extra for Ricky, but you don't want yours, maybe someone else might eat it."

"I'm eating fish today too," she said. "You've ruined me, Rusty! I'll have to detox for a month."

The boys retrieved the remaining plates and served them, and finally, Rusty sat down. "Okay, dig in," he said, as everyone was politely waiting for others to be served. "Oh, that's risotto on the side."

Sharon cut open her parchment packet and steam rose, showing that Rusty's spat with Ricky didn't allow the food to get cold at all. She took a bite and was instantly in love. Garlic, butter, lemon, thyme, and the fish was cooked perfectly.

"Rusty, promise me that you'll make this again," she said. "And how in the world did you have the time to make risotto? It takes forever!"

"It's all about planning," Rusty said. "Man, this is good. Hey Windy City Boy, pass the focaccia, will you?"

"I want a please."

"Kiss my—" he saw the look on Sharon's face and stopped. "Uh, please, Ricky Raydor, ye who have traveled so far to get here from the East, pass this peasant a slice of bread." The corners of his lips went up, and Sharon knew, from experience, that Ricky was on his way to being forgiven.

Ten stuffed and bloated adults sat around the living room while Rusty cleaned off the table to prep for dessert. "Oh, all the food, so much, so good!" Katerina said, holding her stomach. "Soon I to be very very cozy!"

_Cozy_? Sharon wondered what English word Katerina was reaching for.

"Honey, we're gonna get you as cozy as possible, you hear?" Clay said. "I bet if we ask nicely, Rusty will send us home with some leftovers."

The teen in question collapsed in an armchair next to Sharon, a plate of ravioli in one hand and a glass of coke in the other. "Okay everybody, we've come to our last two courses, which I combined because I wanted to. Usually there is a cheese and fruit plate near the end of the meal, but I don't get that any more than salad at the end. And as much as I love cheese, I don't want to be sued if anyone has a heart attack, because how much cheese can one person eat? So there's just a fruit plate on the dining room table. There's also dessert, and if I weren't stuffing my face right now I'd reach into my pocket and pull out my cheat sheet to find out the Italian word."

"Dulce," Provenza and Sharon said in unison.

Rusty nodded. "Dulce consists of ricotta pie and Christmas cookies I baked, plus some mini cannoli's I got from Moreno's. I got a ton so don't hold back." Rusty put his coke between his knees and forked two ravioli in his mouth.

"Ricotta pie, seriously?" Provenza said. His voice took on a slightly softer tone, undiscernible unless you knew him well. "I don't mean to sound like a Lifetime made-for-TV movie or anything, but I'm not sure I've had that since I was a kid. My grandmother made the most amazing ricotta pie for Easter. She used to make two so I'd have my own. Great choice, kid."

"Yea, I found out after I bought all the ingredients that it's traditional at Easter. Guess I should have run that one past Lorenzo."

"Rusty, it's like salad. If it tastes good, you can put it wherever the hell you want to," said Flynn.

"That could be a metaphor for life," Brenda mused.

"Yes. For some people, salad at the end of a meal, and other people, meh, not so much," he said.

"I guess we have to accept the way people wanna to do their courses," Flynn said, looking at Brenda.

"For me, dinner starts with Dolce, always." Brenda smiled cautiously at Andy, and got a slight nod in return.

_Christmas miracle is the only explanation_, Sharon thought to herself, sensing Flynn's hostility breaking away like a floe from an iceberg.

Rusty looked more relaxed than he had the past two days. "Coffee should be done in a couple of minutes. Milk and sugar on the table along with small plates and mugs. I'm putting that guy—" he pointed to Ricky— "in charge of getting the coffee in the dining room when it's done."

"Hey, did I mention I took four flights and napped on the floor of an airport?" Ricky said.

"Get over it."

"For you, Little Bro, I will." He held out his fist to Rusty, who reluctantly tapped it with his own.

_The fist bump_, Sharon thought. _The universal male sign of bonding._

"Well, I say, my complements to the chef," Sharon said. "I am blown away by how good everything was, Rusty." A chorus of affirmative murmurs echoed her.

Provenza raised his wine glass. "I say, Hail to the Chef!"

"Hail to the Chef!" the guests said, raising their glasses to Rusty and clapping.

Rusty's face was as red as the marinara on his plate. _Get used to praise_, Sharon thought. _You have a lot more coming to you in your life_.

* * *

"No one has ever died from going to bed with dirty dishes in the sink," Ricky said.

"Agreed," said Rusty. "And I don't want you to do them. The whole idea of me cooking Christmas dinner was so you didn't have to do anything. I'll get to them when I wake up. Ricky can help me. Besides, we made a dent."

_If you can call cramming the leftovers in the fridge and then starting the first of many loads in the dishwasher a dent._ Her kitchen was littered with unfamiliar platters and bowls covered with congealing food, and it made her skin crawl. She was supposed to go to sleep with that mess in her condo?

"Besides, Mom, I'm sleeping in the living room and you'll keep me up if you're in there banging around."

She raised her hands in surrender. "You win, boys. Dishes are all yours. But I request, as part of my present, that they are done by noon tomorrow, okay?"

"Present!" Rusty yelled, slapping himself on the forehead. "I almost forgot." He turned and bolted into his room.

"Strange kid, that one," said Ricky. "You gonna keep him around?"

"You bet," said Sharon. She walked over and put her arm around her son's waist. "I kept you around, didn't I?"

"That you did, Mom, that you did. Why you kept Megan, on the other hand…"

Rusty came back and looked at Ricky. "Hey Windy City Boy, you gonna take a shower? I can smell you from here." Rusty wrinkled his nose.

Ricky disengaged from Sharon and gave Rusty a rude finger gesture on the way to the guest bathroom. Rusty turned to look at Sharon.

"Uh, hey, I got your Christmas present here." He held something behind his back. "You have to promise me that you won't open it until we're all in bed, okay?" He looked more uncertain than he did when he summoned people to dinner that evening.

"Sure, but you got me curious."

"Not until I'm asleep, Sharon." Rusty brought his hand out from behind his back and passed her a cream envelope with her name written on the outside. He turned and went into his room, and Sharon went into hers, wondering as she changed into her nightgown and removed her makeup why Rusty couldn't have presented a gift certificate to her that morning when they exchanged presents.

She settled herself in bed and picked up the envelope. It was thick, heavy stock, the type one buys at a stationary store. She opened it slowly with her nail and took out a page of matching stationary. She opened up it and read:

_Dear Sharon,_

_If this is the worse Christmas present you ever got, don't blame me. I asked Brenda for her advice on what to get you for Christmas, because I wanted to get you something really nice that would make you really happy, and this letter is her suggestion. And here's why._

_I'm not a big fan of talking about feelings, but neither are you. I think that's one reason why we get along. But I guess the one bad thing about me not being like this is that you don't know how I feel. And that's what Brenda thought you might like, as a present, is for me to tell you. So here goes._

_I never apologized for how mean I was when I first moved in with you. I was used to the streets and I thought I was tough enough to get through anything. I certainly didn't need any mom but my own, and I hated that you trapped me and tried to make me into a normal kid by talking about things like Catholic schools and college. I was a complete asshole to you, and when I think back to that time, you know what amazes me? Not that I adjusted, because I'm good at_

_I never apologized to you for how mean I was when I first moved in with you. I was used to the streets, and the same guy had just tried to kill me twice and I got away both times, so I thought I was tough enough to get through anything. I certainly didn't need any mom but my own, and I hated that you trapped me and tried to make me into a normal kid by talking about things like Catholic schools and college. I was a complete asshole to you, and when I think back to that time, you know what amazes me? Not that I adjusted, because I'm good at that, but that __you__ did. I gave you every reason to kick me out, because that's what I wanted, but you put up with me no matter how mean I was. If I were you, I would have paid Sanchez $20 to beat the shit out of me, but that's not your style. When my mom did her disappearing act again, I realized we were never going to be a family, and I couldn't change that. I had what I had, and that was you, and it was pretty good. _

_What I wanted to say, and I'm not doing a great job of it, is thank you. You always have my back, Sharon. For the first time, I have a real home, and even though I hated it at first—same place, same person bossing me around—after awhile it was nice. I felt like I could breathe without worrying that everything was going to shift around. Once I realized I wasn't going anywhere, I started to think about the future. I never did that before, because what was the point? There was nothing to plan for. I would have been lucky to make it to 21, and when you live on the streets, you just think of how many dates you need to have money to eat today, and nothing more. Living with you changed all that. Even more, you believe I'm going to do something with my life, though I'm not sure what that is (I'm writing this two days before Christmas, I borrowed this nice stationary from Fritz, by the way, so if dinner turned out to be a disaster, I hope you ordered Chinese). I'm going to say something that is so corny and sappy that I can barely stand to write it, but I just can't think of any other way to say it. I really want to make you proud._

_So, for that part, Part 1 of your Christmas present, to make sure it's clear, is I want to thank you for everything you have done for me. And I want to thank you for being who you are: calm, dependable, tough, even though you drive me crazy sometimes. I needed someone like you in my life. Can you imagine me living with someone as emotional as Brenda? We would both be diving for the kitchen knives the first day. But you have this way of always being chill, and that's good. I remember the night you found me after Daniel beat me up. I could tell how upset and angry you were. You had tears in your eyes and your hands were shaking, and it was hard for you to talk. But you didn't baby me too much or cry or any crap like that (although if you wanted to go out and shoot him, that would have been fine with me). Things were bad enough without drama._

_The second part is really simple. You told me a few times you love me, which makes me really embarrassed, and there is no way I'm going to say it back. But I can do that here. I love you, Sharon. You are the best foster mom ever (see the thanking part above for why). I see you at work all the time, so I know you are also an amazing person too, and I'm proud to be your foster son. And I know I'm really, really lucky how things worked out._

_So I hope that a "thank you" and a "I love you" are as nice gifts as the diamond and gold necklace I saw in a jewelry store window that I really wanted to give you, but my allowance didn't quite make it. Maybe next year._

_Merry Christmas!_

_Love, Rusty_

Sharon read the letter so many times she lost count, but was careful that her fingers dampened from chasing stray tears didn't smudge the ink. For the first time in a very long while, she felt certain of her place in the world. _I'm Rusty's mother, and I'm making a difference,_ she thought. _And I'm holding my own in Major Crimes. Everything is going to be alright._

With a full heart, the head of Major Crimes turned off her light and fell asleep late Christmas night, content beyond measure.

* * *

Brenda stretched out on the bed and watched Fritz get undressed. She marveled at what amazing shape he was in for a man his age, his muscular chest gently sloping into a flat stomach. _This amazing specimen of manhood is all mine_, she thought.

"You checking me out?" Fritz said, breaking her concentration.

"What? No! I mean, well, maybe."

Fritz grinned. "Yea me." He joined her on the bed and kissed her forehead. "You know, I feel like we haven't had a minute alone in days."

Brenda sat up and leaned against the headboard. "That would be because he haven't. Between houseguests and dustin' off my Russian, there hasn't been any time."

"Say 'I love you' in Russian," Fritz said.

"_Ya lyublyu tyebya_," Brenda said.

"Oh, that sounds very sexy, like you're a femme fatale in a Bond movie. And speaking of James Bond, I think I've figured out a mystery." He propped himself up on his elbows and got that boyish, teasing look on his face that either melted her heart or drove her crazy, depending on her mood.

"And that would be?"

"Well, I noticed, using my superior FBI investigative skills, that when Ricky Raydor was introduced to you tonight, he looked a little scared and pissed off."

"He did not. He was just tired is all. Who wants to get stuck in the Duluth airport?"

"Oh, there was definite fear. I've seen serial killers with that look in their eyes. I've even seen in in the mirror a couple of times."

"Ha ha," she said, sticking out her tongue.

"So I have a theory," he continued, ignoring her, "that someone, perhaps maybe you, called up Ricky in Chicago and badgered him to get his ass out to California so he wouldn't disappoint a certain young friend of ours. And his foster mother."

Brenda busied herself with fluffing up her pillow. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talkin' about Fritz, but I suggest you keep your suspicions to yourself."

"Uh huh, and those suspicions were just confirmed. What did you do, Brenda, cold call him and say, 'you don't know me, but you better come home for Christmas or I'll find a mobster in Chicago to break your legs?'"

"Well, that would be illegal, hirin' a thug like that. Although at least now I know to shop on the Deep Web for things like that. And, hey, you have no support for your supposition, Agent Howard. And good luck gettin' a warrant to look at my phone records."

"Maybe Ricky will talk," he said, smirking.

"And maybe someone made it very clear to him that his family needed to think that him comin' home at the last minute was his idea."

Fritz grinned. "Oh Brenda, you are a piece of work. You are a loyal friend, I have to hand it to you. Very loyal." He laced his fingers though hers, but she pulled back.

"Hey Fritz, speakin' of loyal, I wanted to thank you for somethin'."

"For what?"

"Everythin' you did, and are doin', for Katerina. I really appreciate it. I know Christmas Eve shoppin' could not have been easy, not with Grumpy and Dopey."

"Hmm, in that allusion, who am I?"

"Prince Charmin', of course."

"Ahhh," he nodded. "Just checking. You know, it was a tiring day, but it was worth it for a couple of reasons, the biggest being the look on Katerina's face this morning."

"I was afraid we overdid it though. For a moment she seemed completely overwhelmed."

"She is overwhelmed, Brenda. This whole week for her has been nothin' but overwhelming. To finally get your freedom at the same time your family is taken away, wow, that's hard. But at least we're overwhelming her with kindness, and even in the short time she's been here, I've seen a change."

"I have too, Fritz. She's probably gonna be goin' to one of those homes for trafficked women on Monday or Tuesday, so I'm hopin' she'll be with us long enough get primed to trust the staff at the place she'll be livin', and yet not too attached that it will be hard for her to leave."

"I think that will be about right."

"Now what were you sayin' about the Christmas Eve trip bein worth the effort?"

"Oh, let's just say that catching your father in an apologetic mood is a wonderful thing. In fact, I think you should blow up at him on a regularly scheduled basis."

"And why would that be?"

"When we were at Panera having lunch, your father said he had something he wanted to say to Claire."

"Was this before or after she became the human bullhorn and announced that you needed to flash your FBI badge to clear the way to the front of the gift-wrappin' line?" Brenda said, amused.

Fritz closed his eyes, looking pained. "That was not funny. No, this was a couple of hours before that."

"Sorry to bring up a bad memory, Fritz. Go on."

"So we were in Panera, and your father cleared his throat and did one of his announcement things. Claire actually looked a little panic stricken."

"Oh no."

"Actually, what he said to Claire was good. After he apologized for making her cry the other night, he started talking about your mother. He said, ' I've seen a lot of marriages fall apart throughout the years. Willie Rae and I had one of the best marriages around, and we worked at it, especially with four kids you have to, because it's easy to lose the other person.'"

"Awww," Brenda said, remembering her father's grief when they talked about her mother the previous day. "I love hearin' that, how much he and Mama loved each other." As always when she thought about Willie Rae for longer than five seconds, her eyes filled with tears.

"It really was sweet. Then he said this bit about how loving someone is all about finding out who they are, learning their nooks and crannies, and then forgetting it all and rediscovering them as a new person, over and over again, because people change, and it's that changing that makes them beautiful to us."

"Didn't know Daddy could be so insightful, but what does it have to do with Claire? She doesn't have a partner. That's the problem."

"He told Claire that she was a good person, but did she ever take the time to really discover the man she was with? He said, and this was really good, 'what I see, Claire, is you being a psychic and telling everyone who they are and what they're thinking, instead of letting _them_ show _you_.'"

"Whoa."

"He basically told her that her whole psychic shtick in combination with a personality that's like a big undisciplined dog who keeps jumping up on you is her way of keeping anyone from getting close, and it's too bad that people never really get to know her."

Brenda sat up, mouth agape. "Did he really call her a big dog?"

"No, that was my interpretation. The funny thing is, Claire seemed to hear him. At least she didn't go running out of the room sobbing this time. She seemed to actually think about what your father said, and she didn't get mad at him for saying it."

"It's been interestin'," Brenda said. "Those two have gotten on better than I ever would have imagined. But for him to say all that and for her to take it in, wow!"

"Like I said, what a day. And then your dad set his sights on me."

Brenda's face morphed from shock to horror. "Oh no, Fritz, did he saw somethin' mean to you? You should have told me, I would have yelled at him again! He had no right—" her temper was kicking in, imaging all the ways her father may had insulted Fritz.

"Down, girl," Fritz said, rubbing her back. "I got good stuff thrown at me, really good stuff. Wanna hear?"

"Good stuff? Really? Tell me."

"He used our marriage as an example of the whole 'you need to get to know each other over and over again' theory. He said, and sorry if this hurts your feelings, that you're 'prickly' and not an easy person to get along with, but I'm a patient man, and I took my time getting you to open up."

"He said I was prickly? Hello Pot, you got a collect call from Kettle," Brenda hissed, crossing her arms over her chest and sticking out her lip.

"Listen to me, honey. He went on to say that you opened up because I'm such a wonderful, patient guy, and he believes you are a better person for being with me. He said we had a great marriage. And I told him that actually it was me who was the better person for being with you. I've stayed sober and become that dependable man I've always wanted to be."

Brenda reached out to caress his face. "You've always been amazin' to me." He kissed her palm.

"Your father said that was proof that we had a really strong marriage, and he said something to me that almost made me choke on my Chipotle Chicken Panini, hold the tomatoes."

"And that was?"

Fritz looked thoughtful for a moment. "He told me that he couldn't have wished for a better husband for you. That is was a comfort to him as he grows older to know 'his little girl' is happily married to someone who is worthy of her."

Brenda looked at her husband, perpetually amazed that such a good-looking, bright, kind man could possibly have insecurities. Many of them involved her, and she knew he was convinced Clay thought he wasn't good enough for Brenda. No amount of telling him otherwise could convince him.

"Now do you believe me, Fritz, that he likes and respects you? That you got no reason to be intimidated by him?" she said softly. She tapped him on his forehead. "You finally got that through your thick head?"

"Yea, I do. I just needed to hear it from the man himself."

"Well, I guess Daddy really was playin' Santa, givin' out all kinds of Christmas presents this year," she said. _But since we're eliminating insecurities, let's take care of another one while we're at it._

"Honey, I need to change the topic a little bit. We need to clear the air about somethin.'"

"Okay, shoot." Fritz scooted closer and got very interested in untying Brenda's robe, and she decided a little physical distance would help him focus. Besides, she was a pacer. She did better with serious conversations when she was on her feet, able to channel nervous energy into movement. She felt caged if too many feelings were thrown at her when she was sitting down, as if she were in a dunking booth. She untangled herself from Fritz's arms and stood up.

"My Daddy told you somethin' the other day I had said to him in confidence, and I'm not real happy about that, but there's nothin' I can do about that," she said. "He told you I was missin' my old job at the LAPD, didn't he?"

Fritz sat up straight on the bed and faced her. "Yes, he did, Brenda. And I was hurt that you never said a word to me about this. Remember honesty is our new policy. Why did I have to hear about this from your father?"

"Because Fritz, what was the point? I couldn't go back. It was just somethin' I've been feelin' lately and I told Daddy about it one night when we were up late talkin'. It was nothin' for us to discuss cuz I wasn't actually lookin' for a change."

"Doesn't matter, Brenda. If something's going on I want to know about it."

_Oh god, don't let this devolve into another "Fritz tells Brenda how to have a relationship" conversation,_ she thought. To Fritz, she said, "I'd like to tell you what went on with me the past few days, Fritzy, and things will be clearer. And lest you worry, it's a good endin'."

He nodded, not looking convinced.

She paced to her right. "Things have been slow in my Division lately because of the holidays, and I've been bored. And I have been thinkin' back on my years in the LAPD with nostalgia, you know, rememberin' all real excitin' cases I had, the buzz of adrenaline from a tough interrogation, the tough ones we solved that the media was all over, that sort of thing. And yea, I was feelin' sad." She looked at him. Not surprisingly, he looked hurt.

"Fritz, I didn't say that I missed not seein' you for days, us fighin' about how much I worked, always messin' up our dates. So get that hangdog look off your face and let me finish my story."

"I didn't say a word," he said.

"Thank you for that. Anyways, this is the backdrop of what happened this week, what was goin' on in my head when I was helpin' out with the Russian and whatnot. The thing is, as you know from my rantin' and ravin' last weekend, it was really hard for me to detach from the crime and go on my merry way, especially the night I had to go and deliver the information on Bez Perevoda to Sharon on Rusty's behalf. The case was breakin' wide open, and I had to go home. It was tough, real tough." She turned and paced to the left.

"I felt like that until the night I met Katerina, and then, things changed." She stopped and leaned against the wall. "I was tellin' Sharon about this tonight."

"I was wondering what she pulled you aside to talk about."

"I'll get to that later. When I went in and saw Katerina, I was so excited that they found her, her bein' the center of this whole case and all. And I looked at her and she was this _girl_, not a _motive_. Believe me, I've become very good at tearin' people's lives apart, but for some reason it was real hard givin' the bad news to Katerina. No, wait," Brenda shook her head. "It wasn't all that hard. Sharon and I tag-teamed the notification and it went okay. What was awful was Katerina's reaction."

"Oh, did she fall apart?"

"No, not at all, and that's what really got to me. She just sort of sat there and trembled. It was like all the horrible things that had happened to her stripped her of the ability to react like a normal person. And I was watchin' her, thinkin' about everything she has gone through, and now she has the guilt over her family's death. And it just felt like too much. Like I had seen way too much sufferin' and this girl tipped me over the edge." Brenda tasted bile on the back of her throat. "I can't believe I'm tellin' you this, it's so embarassin'. First chance I could get away, I ran to the bathroom and threw up."

"Oh, sweetheart." Fritz got up and wrapped his arms around her, and Brenda buried her face in his chest, but just briefly. She needed to finish her piece.

"So I'm done with Major Crimes, Fritz. I am not only tired of the bad men, I can no longer handle the damage they leave behind. So no more daydreamin' about my glory days. Lookin' at death and shattered people doesn't hold a lot of 'glory' for me any more."

"Ready to really move on, then," Fritz said.

"Yes, I promise. I told Sharon all of this too, when she apologized to me this evenin'. I told her Major Crimes was all hers."

He took her face in her hands. "How do you feel about that?"

"You know what, honey? I feel just fine. My departure from the LAPD was real rough, and now I finally got some closure. And it's good." She kissed him lightly on the lips.

"So you're happy?"

"Yes, Fritzy, I'm happy." She ran her fingers through his thick hair and whispered in his ear, "if you take me to bed I'll be even happier."

He pulled back and looked at her, surprised. "Brenda, we have a house full of guests. You really want to fool around?"

She ran her hands down his chest and purred, "I can be quiet, I promise."

Fritz pulled her close and kissed her neck. "No you can't."

"Oh, but I'd really, really like to try." He kissed her and the world around her blurred as she flew to that place where reality faded into perfection and pleasure.

Brenda watched Fritz sleep. His slow, deep, even breaths were such a comfort to her on nights when her nerves her frayed from work at the LAPD, and a few hours in Fritz's arms was desperately needed medicine. And even though she spends a lot more uninterrupted nights with him now, she doesn't for granted the comforting heaviness and warmth wrapped around her that was the love of her life. He had a way of making her feel safe, not from the evil and violence in the world, but from the turmoil within. She feared her own troubled psyche far more than the Philip Strohs of the world, and it was Fritz who taught her to lay down her arms and declare peace with herself.

She lightly kissed his temple and rolled out of bed, grabbing a nearby robe to cover her nakedness as she slipped out of the bedroom. She was a little keyed up, which was rare for her after sex. Fritz usually left her boneless and immobile, every bit of energy and desire delightfully wrung out of her. Tonight, though, she had something on her mind.

She needed to check in on Katerina. Without turning on a light she padded to the study, and was glad to find that the door wasn't latched. She slowly pushed it open, feeling guilty for violating Katerina's privacy. She was asleep curled up in a tight ball, looking even younger than her 19 years, with Joel in a similar position at her feet. Brenda squinted and looked round the dim room until she found what she was looking for on top of Fritz's desk. _She read it_, Brenda thought. _ I gave her double edged Christmas gift, at once precious and painful._

When Brenda was reviewing evidence taken from the crime scene, she found two letters amongst Artem Popova's belongings. The first was the one Katerina had sent him two years ago from LA, the letter that acted like a siren's song and called Artem to America to find his beloved prodigal daughter. The second letter was unopened when Brenda found it, and on the plain white envelope was written only Katerina's name. When Brenda translated it, searching for clues to the Popova's killers, she realized it had significance only to the young woman to whom it was addressed.

So she did something she had only done once in her career: she stole evidence. The first time was to stop a madman's manifesto from being broadcast to vulnerable minds who might carry forth and give life to his twisted message. This time she mimed the efforts of Xeroxing documents from the evidence box, even dropping in some her precious vending machine change in Provenza's jar to cover her phantom costs, then slipped the letters and a few other documents in her black purse. She had planned to return all the documents to Major Crimes, but the second she laid eyes on the girl, frozen in her shock and in her grief, Brenda knew that the original copy, the only copy, belonged in her hands alone.

Brenda couldn't decide when to give Katerina the letter. Certainly not the night she met her. Brenda thought about handing it to her as a parting gift when Katerina left for the rehabilitation center, but she felt guilty for keeping it from her for so long. So Christmas evening it was, after the chaos of presents and dinner at Sharon's was over. She followed Katerina to the study after everyone said goodnight and pressed the letter in her hand.

"I found this in your father's things," she had said to her in Russian. "It was sealed, and I had to open it because it might have held information that could help us to find your family's' killers, but it didn't. I'm sorry about that. It was meant for your eyes only. That's why no one knows about it but me, so let's keep it a secret, okay?"

Katerina nodded mutely and stared at her name written in her father's handwriting. Brenda left her alone, joining Fritz in the bedroom to tie up some of her own loose ends.

Satisfied that Katerina was safe in the arms of sleep, she quietly left the study and walked into the living room. Claire was out cold on the couch, so Brenda quietly scooped up her purse and headed toward the patio, grabbing a throw blanket along the way. Every nook and cranny of her house was filled with family, so space for contemplation was hard to find. She slowly slid out the back door and wrapped herself in the blanket as insulation from the brisk evening air. She stretched out on one of the stuffed chaise lounge chairs and got comfortable. The moon was full and a soft light played upon the surface of the pool.

Brenda reached into her bag and pulled out a yellow legal pad. She only read the letter addressed to Katerina once, dutifully writing down the English translation as reference, feeling that although the words had already been revealed to her, to touch the letter not meant for her eyes was a violation. Of what, she wasn't sure. She couldn't help herself, though, but to reread her English translation, wondering what the words meant to Katerina. She doubted she would ever find out, even if the wounded girl could express, in any language, how it felt to be touched by her father across the bounds of mortality and time.

_20/9/2013_

_Dear Katerina,_

_I am an old man, and because of this, I must be aware that my life may be short. That is why I am leaving this letter in case I die before you are found. Just as you risked much to let me know what had become of you, I want to make sure, my beautiful daughter, that you know how much you mean to me, and all that I did to get you back home._

_When I got your letter and learned how that evil woman Galina lured you away and sold you to horrible men, I cried. I cried because your beautiful life was being destroyed, and all the hopes I had for your were crushed. I cried because to hold on to your soul when you are nothing but flesh must be very, very hard. But I also cried because you thought I would be ashamed of you. What happened to you is not your fault, child. Nothing could never make me stop loving you._

_I decided the day I received your letter that I had to find you. A father's job is to protect their child, and I had not done so. I was going to make up for that, no matter what it took. I told Elena that I planned to go to America to find you, and she told me I was crazy. But I did it, Katerina. It was more effort than I ever imagined, and now we are in Los Angeles, I feel I have fallen into hell. Each day last longer than a week, for even the simplest things made me exhausted in this place of too many people. Elena too. But I am so grateful to be here, and I feel I am so close to finding you. Elena and I look and look, every spare second we have. We brave this frightening place to find anyone who speaks Russian who might know you. It is the only thing I care about, and it is the reason I get up every morning._

_I remind Elena and Vika every day that we were only visitors in this strange world. We are here to find you and take you back to Russia, far away from this horrible place where they sell you like an animal. But your sister Vika, so little, doesn't fear the city and strange ways. Elena and I were both surprised to find she takes to America like a fish to water. She learned English so fast, and she loves all things American. She has a good friend, almost her twin, and she spends a lot of time at her house. The little girl's mother loves Vika like a daughter and takes good care of her. She feeds her well in her nice home and takes Vika all kinds of places. Vika comes home Sunday night and talks and talks about the ocean, movies, new foods she ate, and what she wants to be when she grows up. I decided after living here for six months that Vika now belongs to America. When we find you and return to Russia, I will ask her little friend's mother to take in Vika as her own. She is a woman with only one child who clearly wants more, so I don't think she will refuse. I'm sure the other villagers in Isoprovo will be confused that I went to Los Angeles to get back one daughter and yet left another behind, but my children are different. You need your family. Vika is little and can learn to love others as parents, and the longer we stay here, the harder it will be for her to settle in back home. She should stay in America and keep studying and grow up to be what she chatters about—a doctor this week, an artist the next. Elena doesn't like the idea of leaving her behind, but I will insist. It is better for her, and I tell Elena to start letting her go now, bit by bit, so it won't hurt so much when it becomes final._

_I am a simple man, Katerina, and I am very far from perfect. I give my love to one person, and there is little left for anyone else. I loved your mother so much, and a part of me died the day she was buried. I could never give Elena that kind of love, although I care for her. You stole my heart the day you were born, so perfect and beautiful, and I wanted the world for you. I have little love left over for Vika, although she's a good girl. When I found out what happened to you, my mind was always on the daughter I lost, not on the one I have, another reason why Vika should be given a chance in America. I give her so little, although Elena mothers her well. Popova's are strong stock. We will all survive. You have, my beloved, if you are reading this letter._

_My eyes grow tired and my hand weary from writing. It is important that I put these words down and they somehow find you, in case we don't meet again. But I want to tell you, Katerina, what you must do. Take the life you have left and forget the crimes against you. Let Elena comfort you and be a mother to you. Grow strong, be a wife, be whatever you want. Just don't let those men take your spirit away. If that happens, they win, and you are stronger than that. You are, after all, my daughter. _

_Know always that I love you with each breath I take._

_Your Poppa, Artem_

Brenda wiped her eyes and rose slowly, slid the legal pad back in her bag, and made her way back in the house. She paused in the living room bathed in the light of the Christmas tree which Claire refused to turn off when she went to bed. The house was still, and for the first time in days, so was Brenda. She was right to give the letter on Christmas night. Katerina might not realize it, but Artem had given his daughter a gem. Brenda hoped his words, "_Take the life you have left and forget the crimes against you" and "don't let these men take your spirit away"_ will be something for her to hold on to during the dark nights of healing ahead of her.

Brenda yawned and felt the fatigue she had been ignoring all day creep into her bones. She left her sleeping sister-in-law and the beautiful Christmas tree and walked toward her bedroom, stopping at the guest room to listen to the sounds of her father's snoring. _I'm lucky I have my father,_ she thought, as she headed toward her own room and her sleeping husband. _And I'm lucky I have Fritz_. _And I'm very, very lucky that this Christmas brought me a little clarity about what's important and where I'm going._

She slipped out of her robe and pressed her naked skin against Fritz's, who automatically wrapped his arms around her. "Merry Christmas, honey," she whispered to him.

_Merry Christmas to Sharon, who got her own gift of clarity this year. And to Rusty and Ricky and to all the people who put up with us tough-ass women. _As if he could read her mind, Fritz's arms tightened.

Brenda's head was filled with vision of Rusty's dessert buffet as she drifted off to sleep.

**END STORY**

**So, should I stick to romantic stuff or try another procedural some day?  
**

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